360 Degrees
by OodHappenings
Summary: Part 2 of my Circle series. Sherlock returns to find that things-foremost his blogger- are far from the same as they had been before. I suppose it could be read alone, but as a previously established relationship story. JohnLock main paring, rated for content.
1. Chapter 1

Pill bottles on the table.

Prescriptions for pain and depression, no doubt.

There is much less clutter now, though the place still retains a healthy amount of junk.

The books are slightly askew on the top most shelves- though straight where the good doctor could reach- and some are still stacked up on tables and in the corners of the room.

The furniture has been moved.

A new flat screen television sits in the corner, one chair facing it.

His chair.

In fact, most of the things still remaining in the flat are his.

His moth collection in the center of the mantle, flanked by his skull, and that awful terracotta soldier statue he'd been given one year for Christmas.

His old Walkman and it's headphones still grace the bull's skull on the wall.

His case files are still on the table beside his chair.

The smiley face filled with bullet holes still has residence on the wall, seemingly untouched at first glance.

Upon closer inspection, however, one notices the change in depth of the holes.

Someone has perfectly replicated each shot three or four times.

The mark of a soldier, hitting his target with every shot.

There is a pillow and several blankets on one end of the couch.

Indications that someone has been sleeping there far more often then is normal.

The kitchen, in contrast to the living room, is completely devoid of all things his.

Save, that is, for his mug on the drying rack.

Two cups of tea are still being made then.

A hand covers a mouth to hold in a sob when his eyes once again rest on his chair.

He can see it now.

The image of the lone occupant of this flat curled up, crying.

The cane that had once been abandoned propped against the arm rest each time he sat down.

He shook now.

Violent tremors wracking his body.

The door had been slammed shut down stairs, the uneven gate of a man with a cane shattering the utter silence of the building.

A man entered the room slowly.

Wearily.

He had expected violence, passion, astonishment, some sort of response at all.

Not acceptance.

Or rather, to be completely ignored.

The man who had fallen felt it all happening again.

"John."

It was a whisper.

Broken.

Pained.

There was a pause, as the other man stilled.

Laughter filled the space.

Not the laughter of joy, or happiness.

But broken, sharp, pain filled laughter.

The former doctor turned, looking at him with that stupid grin of his firmly in place.

"Hello Sherlock. Nice to see you again."

Another fit of laughter, this set verging on giggles.

"You picked a fine day to turn up. The third anniversary of your death."

The detective was confused, his chest burned with emotion, bile rising in his throat as realization struck him.

"John."

"It's a fitting day for me to finally go mad. I'm just glad that you look in one piece. Well, mostly one piece I was half expecting that the last image my mind would conjure would be that one."

The one of him a bloodied mess on the ground.

The one of him a corpse on the ground.

The one of his headstone.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much. "

"You're looking thicker than I remembered. More muscular. Maybe I'm just subconsciously enhancing your appearance. Your hair is shorter too. It looks good, I suppose, though I miss the way your hair curled over your forehead."

John shrugged, tapping his cane and hobbling into the kitchen.

"Fancy a cuppa?"

Sherlock couldn't move.

Couldn't breath.

This was wrong.

All wrong.

"John."

Desperate now, pleading.

"Really, you were so much more articulate in life, Sherlock. Then again, that was a word you used more than any other. It makes sense then, that I'd remember every way you'd say my name. Each, little inflection. Each breath you'd take when you'd speak. Spent every thing** I **had trying to memorize that speech you gave. Your note you called it."

By this point the doctor had started the kettle and had opened a box of Pimms.

The same kind as he had given Sherlock three years ago.

The night that they had admitted to loving each other.

Sherlock watched John, his John, going about such a mundane task, chatting so calmly.

"My therapist would be appalled, I'm sure. Trust issues and I'm opening up to a figment of my imagination. You know, it took me over a month to even admit that you were dead."

The kettle whistled, and he poured his glass, carrying it to the living room and taking his seat.

He gestured to Sherlock's chair.

"Sit. It belongs to you after all."

There was another of those sharp, painful laughs.

"I wouldn't let anyone touch that chair for a year. Until your brother came and tried to convince me to leave Baker Street. He just propped himself in it and waited for me to come home."

That smile again, one of nostalgia.

"I was so cross that I flat out punched him. Broke the nose of the British Government, if you can believe it."

Sherlock had moved slowly, crouching in front of the doctor, studying him.

Observing.

"John."

The doctor rolled his eyes.

"See there? That is the I-don't-know-how-dangerous-this-is-I-must-be-caref ul, John. You used it at the pool. That seems like so long ago, doesn't it? Nearly five years. Before Irene Adler, and Henry at Baskerville."

There was a pause, the doctor once again lost in his memories.

"I miss you, you know. More than you could imagine. I wrote you letters, and emails. Never sent them though. Can't message a dead man."

His features changed then, his lip trembling dangerously, eyes shining with un-shed tears.

He coughed, squaring his shoulders and staring forward.

"Why did you do it Sherlock? I have spent so much time trying to puzzle through it."

A pause, as Sherlock contemplated speaking.

Words seemed to fail him.

"At first I thought Moriarty had forced you. That he had been holding a gun to your head and telling you to jump."

John shuddered.

"I got a copy of the case report, though. His estimated time of death was sooner than yours, not later. You had his confession on tape, your name could have been cleared. Logically, you had no reason to kill yourself."

He hung his head, defeated.

"So then it hit me. As in it must have been me. Something that I'd said. Something I'd done. I thought that maybe you'd felt trapped, or cornered. Or your hatred of sentiment had caught up with you. Maybe it was the shame of being constantly associated with me. Hindered by me."

He scoffed, looking up to meet the pained eyes of the consulting detective.

"You could have told me you know. That you didn't love me. I'd have understood. There were more ways out than suicide."

Sherlock could only sit there and blink.

The detective's heart was shattered, ground and marred.

He had no idea, to what extent he had broken his blogger.

His John.

Sherlock's brain went into overdrive.

Speech was offline, but evidence, evidence he had in abundance.

He unbuttoned his coat, slowly, pulling off his scarf and shrugging the items onto the floor.

Around his neck hung a titanium ring on a silver chain.

A match to the ring John Watson wore on his finger.

John simply shook his head.

"It figures that you'd have that. They couldn't find it on your body. Molly even looked for it. I had thought you'd thrown it, left it somewhere. It's the thing that showed we were together. You must've hated it."

Sherlock was on the verge of tears himself, now.

"John."

A cry.

Pleading.

Begging.

"John please. Listen. I'm here. Really here."

John scoffed.

"A full sentence with exactly what I wanted to hear. That's it then. I've lost it."

There was the soft clicking of heels on wood as Mrs. Hudson walked in.

"Yoo-hoo. John! I brought tea-"

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson. Bring it up."

"Do you have company? I thought I heard you talking."

John shook his head.

"Nope, only mad old me up here, talking to myself."

Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner.

"Oh, you've not gone-"

A crash, as the tea service fell to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her hand clutching her chest, another clamped over her mouth.

"Sher-John! Who is this, it can't be."

She was shaking, her eyes pooling with tears.

She took a tentative step forward, reaching out.

"John, who?"

The doctor was up, at the side of his landlady.

"No one is here. Just me."

Sherlock stood.

"Mrs. Hudson. It is me. Sherlock. It's over. It's all over now. I'm back. Alive."

The woman looked at the detective as though he were a ghost.

A specter returned to haunt her.

John followed her gaze, his own eyes resting on the figment of his imagination.

Watching it interact with his landlady.

He turned to her, confused.

"Mrs. Hudson? Who are you talking to?"

She stared at her tenant, aghast.

"Its Sherlock, John. He's back."

John spun around, eyes wide, mouth locked open.

"You can see him too?"

With those words, John Watson's world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock could see the way John had swayed on his feet, and moved quickly to catch him.

He quickly maneuvered the doctor to the couch, covering him with one of the blankets.

The whole process seemed eerily familiar.

Sherlock crouched beside his blogger, concern and pain filling his voice.

"Mrs. Hudson. I had no-"

His voice cracked, his finger's digging into his hair as he tried to reign in his emotions.

"I had no idea that he had gotten this bad."

He took a deep breath.

"I don't know what to do."

Mrs. Hudson paused, and-ignoring the mess she had left on the floor- stepped over and wrapped her arms gently around the man.

"Sherlock. Neither do I. All I can say is that you need to give him time. He's been mourning you for so long. We all thought you were dead!"

Her voice was sharp, edged with raw emotion.

It cut deeply into the detective.

"He took it so much harder than the rest of us. He loved you, and he felt like he was responsible for your suicide."

She shook her head, flopping into the chair nearest the couch.

"The first time I caught him close to joining you- in the graveyard I mean- I thought it was because he missed you. Because he wanted to join you. That's understandable, I suppose, going after those you love."

She sighed heavily.

"It wasn't for that reason, though. Once I got him to sit down and hand me the gun, he told me that he couldn't handle it. That he felt guilty for pushing you too it, for cornering you."

She was back to tears now, as was the detective, who had placed a hand atop John's.

"The second time it was Detective Inspector Lestrade who caught him. A year ago today. About to leap off of Bart's."

She wiped her eyes and laughed dryly.

"I had to call some old friends of mine out of their retirement to help me watch him. My sister was- still is- in the hospital, so I couldn't be around to watch him when he needed it. The Mayweathers were great with him. Brought him back to us a bit."

She placed a hand lightly on the detective's shoulder.

"He's been through hell. I don't know why you left, or rather, why you came back. I have no idea what you went through. But Sherlock, you broke him."

The man nodded, wiping his face tiredly, his hand tightening on his bloggers.

"Moriarty had people ordered to kill you, John, and Lestrade if I didn't jump. The only way for that to work was if I made it convincing,you know? So how better to convince the world then my only friend, John Watson."

He shook his head.

"Six months. That was how long I was supposed to stay dead. That was how long it was supposed to take for me to make things right again. Not three years."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"I figured it was something like that. Look, I'm going to clean up that mess, and then leave you two alone, yea? Maybe go for a nice walk."

Sherlock stood for a moment, squeezing John's hand before turned to embrace his former landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson. You do not know how much I have missed you."

She patted his back lightly, still slightly startled by the fact that he was actually here, actually alive.

"I think I have an idea, dear."

He pulled back, hands gently on her shoulders.

"I'll clean up the mess. You go on. Don't worry about it."

The woman nodded, and he gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"It's good to have you home Sherlock."

She stepped away, picking up her serving tray before gingerly leaving the room.

Sherlock turned back to the unconscious figure on the couch, his chest tight with emotion.

He simply bent down, brushing his fingers gently over John's cheek, before planting a light kiss on his forehead.

He stood one more, going to move away, but a whisper came from behind him.

"Sherlock?"

John laid there, his eyes squinting at the impossible figure before him.

"Please tell me that I'm not still asleep."

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.

"No, no you're not. You are actually very much awake."

John shook his head, sitting up on one elbow while reaching over with the other.

Hesitantly, Sherlock held out his hand,bending forward slightly.

John's hand touched his, thee contact firm yet fleeting.

John gasped.

He was here.

He was alive.

After three years.

In the blink of an eye John was up, toppling the detect over backward with a sharp right hook to his jaw.

"Three fucking years Sherlock?"

Another hit, this one to his side.

"You made me believe you were dead for three fucking years!"

A trainer-clad foot connected with the detective's side.

"Do you know the hell I've gone through? How many times I've been put virtually under house arrest because I couldn't fucking cope?"

He knelt now, straddling the detective, his hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him upwards.

"How much I fucking missed you?"

Their lips collided then.

John's mouth slamming against Sherlock's.

There was no passion, no finesse.

Just the sheer need to confirm that he was alive.

Truly alive.

John pulled back, pulling the detective into his arms from the floor, his tears flowing steadily now.

"God Sherlock. I can't believe It's really you. All this time and I thought- but you came back."

John simply sat there in the floor, straddling the detective's lap and clutching him to his chest.

Sherlock, for his part, was thoroughly and completely stunned.

It was all he could do to just breathe, and wrap his arms around John.

His John.

Sherlock buried his face into the crook oh the other man's neck, inhaling the scent of him.

Tea and wool and sandalwood and that warm musk that was just John.

All John.

"John."

_"It's all a trick. It's just a magic trick."_

"Why didn't you tell me Sherlock."

It was a whisper, laced with the bitterness of years.

"I wasn't supposed to. You had to believe John. It was the only-"

He swallowed, his grip tightening.

"The only way to keep you safe."

Sherlock drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"I did try though, to tell you that is. It was all a trick, John. Just a magic trick."

John sat back, blinking rapidly.

"Say that again."

Sherlock did, his hands still resting on his blogger.

"It' was all a-"

John shook his head.

"No. When you- in your, umm, your note. You said It's. 'It's all a trick.'"

Sherlock smiled, unsteadily, the pain in his jaw making the gesture painful.

"Three years too late Doctor Watson, you figured it out."

The other man simply rushed forward one more, pressing Sherlock into yet another kiss.

This one was softer, more forgiving, though not yet what they had previously shared.

"I want you to explain it all to me."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by a look from his blogger.

"Not right now. Can I please- can we please just sit. I just-"

The words he needed to say weren't there, yet the detective understood.

He simply wrapped his arms around his doctor and held him close once more.

A reassurance that they were both alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Time seemed never-ending, as the two men sat there, neither one wanting to break the embrace.

Nearly an hour passed before the discomfort of their position finally caught up with them.

Sherlock's legs had fallen asleep, while the former doctor's were simply stiff.

"Sherlock."

A disbelieving whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Did Mrs. Hudson ever clear up the tea?"

Sherlock stiffened in the man's arms.

"Umm, no."

He drew the word out, slowly pulling away from his doctor.

"I said that I'd do it."

John shook his head, but the traces of a smile bloomed at the corner of his lips.

"Git."

Sherlock smirked.

The former doctor stood, taking the detective's hands, helping him stand.

"I'll clean up, why don't you go-"

The detective's brow furrowed.

"What do you do, John? You're not working anymore. That's clear."

John blushed slightly.

Taking that as an answer, the detective moved, picking up the broken shards of glass.

After a moment, however, he spoke.

"Do you want the truth, or what everyone thinks?"

Sherlock frowned, looking up at his blogger.

"What does everyone think?"

"That I had gone into early retirement."

He leaned against the wall nearest the detective.

"Wandering around London and pining after you."

Sherlock winced, another wave of pain flowing through him.

"And the truth?"

John took a deep breath, nodding.

"Volunteering. Your homeless network still needs a doctor, after all."

Sherlock jumped up, his hand clenching around the sharp glass in his hand.

"What? John do you know how dangerous that is?"

Blood began to drip steadily onto the floor.

"I'm fully aware."

a pause, the doctor's gaze going to the other man's hand

"Shit."

John hurried forward, gripping Sherlock's hand and turning it over, examining the severity of his cut.

"I need to clean this up."

He tugged the detective to the bathroom, forcing him to sit on the edge of the counter.

"At least you have proof that I'm alive."

John allowed a mirthless chuckle, steadying the detective's hand and pulling the bigger shards from his palm.

"So is that what you were doing today, then? Working with the homeless?"

John shook his head, grabbing a pair of tweezers from the cupboard.

"You're the genius detective. You tell me."

Sherlock studied him.

Tear stained cheeks, most likely from his earlier bought of emotion, but possibly some from an earlier time.

Dirt on his shoes, along with grass stains.

In a field.

Nice clothing, not new, but well cared for, ironed and pressed the night before.

Planned outing, wanted to look nice.

Hair slightly disheveled, as if by wind.

Standing in the open.

Floral stains on the fingernails.

Working or touching plants.

Tightening of jaw, droop of eye clenching of shoulder muscles.

In pain, emotional and physical.

"The graveyard."

John nodded.

"Well done. Good to see that the man I visited there is still in fighting form."

The detective winced as an alcohol swab came into contact with his injured skin.

"John I-"

The doctor shook his head.

"I don't want an apology. You, being you, must have had reasons."

He wrapped the hand tightly in a bandage.

"I just want to know what they are."

Sherlock nodded, flexing his hand in the tight wrapping.

"What were your reasons for working with my homeless network?"

John ran an appraising finger over the swelling bruise on Sherlock's jaw.

"As far as I knew, their only benefactor had taken a swan dive off of a fucking building. The least I could do was take care of them in his name."

The detective paused, the meaning of that statement sinking in.

"You helped them, because of me."

John rolled is eyes.

"In a way. It felt good, you know? To have that purpose again. The danger was still there, and sometimes I could even go without a cane because of it. It kept me going."

He shrugged.

"You need to ice this bruise, it looks rather nasty."

Sherlock smiled.

"I can say that the man who delivered it is having a bad day."

_"You were a doctor!" "I had bad days."_

John smirked, stepping back and limping into the kitchen. He brought the broom and dustpan in and carefully swept of the remaining bits of glass.

Sherlock watched the proceedings quietly.

"I am sorry you know."

John looked up from his sweeping, his eyes blazing with a cold fury.

"Did I not just-"

The detective held up a hand.

"I know. I'm not sorry for the fall. Like you said. I had my reasons. I am sorry that I let things get this bad. I had been assured that you were doing alright."

The former doctor froze.

"You were spying on me?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he stepped back slightly, hoping to avoid the maority of the doctor's wrath.

"Yes. I was. Mycroft and a few others were informing me of your condition. It's obvious now that I had been lied to."

John shook his head, emptying the contents of the dust pan.

"What did they tell you?"

"That you were okay. That your limp had returned, and you'd retired from the surgery with the money I willed you from my trust. That you were dating a nice woman and were planning on leaving Backer Street to move in with her."

The former doctor leaned against the table for a moment, before bursting into a fit of giggles.

These, unlike those shared a few hours ago, were genuine.

"Settling down with a nice woman? Sherlock that is the biggest- And you believed it?"

It was the detective's turn to blush.

"A little."

"Did they give this mystery woman a name?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Mary Morstan."

John doubled over, his howls of laughter bringing a very concerned Sherlock to his side.

"John? What's wrong?"

He looked up, one arm clutching his stomach while the other wiped tears from his eyes.

"Mary Morstan. Mary fucking Morstan."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yes that was the name provided. I fail to see the humor in it."

The former doctor shook his head, tossing it back and gulping in air.

"Do you remember- Oh of course you do you're bloody Sherlock Holmes- when you texted me to get lube?"

The detective nodded slowly.

"Yes."

"Well I had dropped my phone, I can't remember why, but she picked it up and caught sight of some message of yours. Something completely embarrassing and incriminating."

He shook his head.

"Well later that day she was one of my patients. Now imagine having to carry on a conversation with a strange woman, who knew you and the man you worked with were now shagging. It makes for a very awkward office visit."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Mycroft most likely fed me that name just so you would laugh at it."

John nodded.

"Probably. Wait though-"

John straightened, his face falling back into that hard glare.

"If you thought that I was moving out. That I had moved on. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly, trying to avert his gaze to anywhere but his blogger.

"I, well I-"

"The Truth, Sherlock."

Another nod.

"I came here to confirm for myself what Mycroft and the others had been telling me. I needed evidence that you were alright."

He bit his lip.

"Also to steal one of your jumpers. You remember the one, right? Lumpy, misshapen, looks horrible on you?"

John's eyes widened a bit in surprise at the honesty of the answer, as well as the memory of the last time anyone had worn that jumper.

"The one you wore."

The detective nodded.

"But then I saw the flat. Saw how things had really been for you and I-I broke down. I had wanted to believe the lies John. I wanted so badly to believe them."

The detective was on the verge of tears again, and it was all John could do not to run.

He was so unfamiliar with Sherlock showing emotion, least of all so much in such an open manner.

"Hey, hey there. It's all right. You're back. It's all right. We'll be alright."

The detective rolled his eyes rubbing a hand over his face.

The cold and calculating mask that appeared had long since been shattered, and was a poor cover for the man behind it.

John chose to ignore the obvious in favor of restoring some semblance of peace.

"Look, why don't I call for take out, and you get cleaned up, yea?"

The detective nodded, excusing himself from the room in favor of searching out any other changes that had been made to his beloved flat.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock found his way into his former room, his breath catching at the state it was in.

His room had been nearly stripped bare of its contents,most of them shipped for storage at Mycroft's estate.

However, a few items remained.

There were a few stray boxes littering the shelves here and there.

His blue silk dressing robe was on it's hook on the back of his door.

His periodic table poster hung in its place across from his bed, which itself had somehow retained a duvet and some pillows.

His eyes rested on the most surprising sight of the day, his violin was laid out on the sheet, well polished and kept, despite 3 years without it's owner.

He delicately lifted the instrument, cradling it in his hands gently, as if it would dissolve in his grasp.

Hesitantly, he plucked a string, his face cracking into a grin as the sweet, perfectly tuned note rang from the chamber.

Hastily, he rosined his bow, drawing it smoothly over the strings.

In the kitchen, the former doctor jumped the sudden onslaught of sound.

His face broke into a grin of his own as the shrill cry of the violin gave way to the smooth ballad of Sherlock's favorite piece.

The detective came swirling into the room, his eyes closed, mouth open as he lost himself to the notes.

John leaned against the table once more, watching the detective twirling and moving to the trill of the music.

If ever evidence were needed to prove that the detective was, indeed, alive, it could be found here.

The blogger was captivated by the detective's motions.

All too soon the piece came to an end, Sherlock bowing to the laughing applause of the doctor.

"That was brilliant Sherlock! "

The detective set the instrument aside and swept forward, a chaste kiss placed firmly on the lips of his blogger.

"Thank you."

John nodded, eyes tight at the swell of emotion boiling from the events of the day.

"I ordered Chinese. May said it would be here in about half an hour."

Sherlock's smile fell.

"May? What happened to Lilith?"

The former doctor shrugged.

"Last I heard she and Ian- The Tesco guy that you hated- got married and moved to Liverpool."

"Liverpool? Why on earth would, never mind- what else has changed while I've been gone."

He was focused now, his eyes boring into his blogger.

God how John had missed that.

"A lot. Three years is a long time Sherlock."

"Like?"

John shrugged setting himself on the table top, his feet swinging off of the edge.

"Donnovan was promoted to Detective Inspector."

A twitch, barely perceptible, made it's way across the detective's cheek.

" Anderson is now head of forensics."

And full on scowl at that point.

" Lestrade nearly lost his job after the whole Richard Brooks business, though I suspect it was Mycroft who kept him employed."

And smirk returned.

This time it was John who frowned.

"Lestrade. He knew, didn't he."

Sherlock could see the fine line being drawn before.

"Not intentionally. Not at first. He was at Mycroft's shortly after my funeral. He was the reason that-"

John stepped forward his hand out, searching.

"Reason that you-"

The detective swallowed thickly, bracing himself for the inevitable hit his admission would earn.

"I was there, John."

_"Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing,One more miracle for me. Don't. Be. Dead."_

The doctor knew what Sherlock meant.

He smiled, placing a tender hand on the detective's arm.

"I got my miracle."

Sherlock sighed, surprised and relieved at his unexpected kindness.

The former doctor patted Sherlock's bruised cheek, earning him a hiss of pain.

"You're still a fucking arse for it taking so long about it, mind."

Sherlock smiled softly.

If this was as close to forgiveness as he got, then he could be content.

John smirked, not quite sure what to say.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the ringing of the doorbell downstairs.

Sherlock instinctively ducked back into his room, a mechanism he developed from three years of hiding in the shadows.

John didn't comment, simply shuffling down the stairs and throwing open the door.

In stepped Mycroft Holmes, A very apologetic looking Detective Inspector at his side.

"Where is he?"

The politician barked, earning him a scowl from both the Di and the former doctor.

"Who?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Don't play the fool Doctor Watson. It isn't becoming of you."

John held up a hand.

"Former doctor, actually. I've retired. And I have no idea who on Earth you are talking about. I'm the only man who lives Here, last time I checked."

He offered the pair his most assured smile, and was greeted by a scowl form Mycroft, and a wide eyed gape from the DI.

"Myc, Do you think-"

The politician simply banged his umbrella against the ground.

"Sherlock, Watson. I know that he's here."

Following his instincts, the former doctor put on his best mask of shock followed by easily summoned pain.

"Sher- Mycroft. He's dead."

The broken way the words fell from his lips softened the anger in the elder Holmes's eyes.

"Mister Watson. I-I'm sorry there seems to have been a mistake here. My, err, late brother-"

Lestrade pushed his way in front of Mycroft gripping John's shoulders tightly.

"He's alive John! Sherlock is alive! And Mycroft and I are just off to publicly prove his innocence. And Molly is bringing you dinner! He's alive John!"

John simply stared at him, squinting slightly.

"The two of you have gone, completely and utterly mad. I was there. I saw him fall. I checked his fucking pulse for god's sake."

He allowed some of his residual anger seem through, his predatory stance and steadily rising voice backing the two men down the steps.

"So until the corpse of Sherlock Fucking Holmes walks through this door. There is nothing that you can say or do to convince me that the man I love is alive."

With that, he slammed the door, locking it firmly before leaning against it, a hand over his face.

He managed to stifle his giggles long enough to make it back upstairs, where he collapsed into his chair in a fit.

Sherlock entered the room, clapping slowly, a huge grin splitting his features.

"That, was a very impressive job John. You are a gifted actor."

John stood, bowing.

"Bet if you'd have known about that then you'd have let me in on it sooner."

The words were said in jest, but the sting was still there.

"No. It would have put you in too much danger."

John shrugged, his arms out to the side.

"I'm still not seeing how that is, but I trust you'll explain it- and why you're so goddamn jumpy- over dinner."

Sherlock nodded, his expression solemn once more, though a hint of a smile curled at his lips.

"Then are you going to explain your sudden affinity for inserting expletives into nearly every sentence?"

The former doctor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders.

"I don't think that it's any of your fucking business how many fucking expletives I put into a fucking-"

He burst into laughter then, his composure shattering.

"You have a point, Sherlock. You have a point."

There was yet another knock at the door, forcing the detective to jump, and John let out a long suffering sigh.

He walked over to the kitchen window, peaking out to see none other than Molly Hooper standing out side the door, a basket in hand.

"Go ahead and hide Sherlock. It's Molly. Attic is still open if you-"

He could here the near-silent footfalls of the detective racing up the steps to John's room.

"want to hide there. Alright then Watson. Show time."


	5. Chapter 5

John checked himself in the mirror quickly, noticing his disheveled hair and now-rumpled shirt.

He straitened himself up quickly, rushing down the stairs while simultaneously putting on a stern countenance.

He opened the door quickly, a shaky smile greeting the mortician.

"Hey Molly. What, ahh, What's up?"

The women's smile fell, and she glanced around worriedly.

"Did Greg not stop in earlier? He was supposed to-"

The former doctor laughed harshly.

"To what? Tell me you were coming over? Ha, come in though, come in."

He stepped back, letting Molly in with a wave.

She stepped in, glancing nervously at the doctor.

He gave her another soft smile before gesturing at the stairs.

"Lady's first."

She made her way up, constantly glancing over at the doctor.

They made their waycinto the kitchen.

"Would you care for some tea?"

The woman waved her hand.

"No actually. I brought food though. Sheppard's Pie."

She held up the basket on her arm.

"That sounds lovely Molly."

He grabbed to plates from the cupboard, setting the table quickly, while Molly watched him curiously.

"So Greg didn't come over."

The former doctor sighed.

"Actually, he was here. I was just hoping that he was wrong about your reason for coming."

The woman frowned, her eyes scanning the room around her.

John's lips looked slightly swollen. His face was streaked with tear stains.

Yet his eyes were literally than they had been in years.

His posture straighter, and-

"You're not using your cane."

The man looked up, his eyes wide with surprise.

"You haven't used your cane since you opened the door. In fact."

She looked around the flat, sighting the discarded item on the floor.

"I'd say you dropped some time ago. When he came in."

John froze, glancing surreptitiously at the stairs.

"Who? Molly-"

The woman walked to the stairs, rapping her knuckles on the wall.

"Sherlock!"

John was slightly panicked now.

Did Sherlock want the Molly to find him?

Was anyone supposed to know he was here?

The former doctor was about to interject another protest on the presence of he detective, when the sound of a thud came from his room.

A stream of profanities followed by Sherlock trudging down the stairs answered his questions.

He was rubbing his forehead,and John could see the red mark forming there.

"Hey Molly."

The casual greeting startled the doctor, but didn't seem to faze the mortician.

She took one look at the detectives battered face and sighed.

"Another bruise to add to your collection?"

The detective simply shrugged, flopping into his usual chair at the table.

"Attic access is lower than I remembered."

John smirked.

"I've never had an issue with it."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded vaguely like "Hobbit sized idiot."'

The former doctor crossed his arms indigently.

"What was that?"

The detective looked up,feigned innocence failing to hide the mischievous glint in his eye.

"Oh. Nothing."

The former doctor simply shook his head.

"Back not even eight hours and you're already insulting him? Really Sherlock."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"To be fare he did punch me earlier."

John shrugged.

"You deserved it."

Molly smiled, seating her self at the table.

"Deserved more if you ask me."

Sherlock sent her a withering look,but the woman simply rolled her eyes,crossing her arms defensively.

"I lived with you long enough Sherlock. You're an arse."

The former doctor fought himself to keep hold of the glass in his hand. He set it quickly onto the table and braced himself against it, suddenly weak.

"John?"

The collective word brought his head up, but his eyes were once again riddled with shadow.

Molly covered her mouth and glanced apologetically at Sherlock.

"Oh, that was bad wasn't it? I wasn't supposed to say anything, was I?"

Sherlock shook his head, his suddenly worried gaze flitting nervously over the doctor.

For his part, John was keeping himself together well.

White hot rage and betrayal coursed through his veins,coupled with wave after wave of sadness.

"How long."

He managed, his voice deceivingly calm and collected.

"Have you known, Molly?"

The woman chewed her lip nervously, glancing at the detective for permission to speak.

"Umm. In total? About a year. Not at one time though. I mean he stayed with me for segments of time. Three months after the fall,a few more interspersed here and there-"

She paused, her gaze begging the detective to finish the story.

Sherlock obliged.

"The last six months, John."

The former doctor nodded, the anger overpowering every other emotion in the man's body.

"Right."

John stood,his short legs carrying him quickly to the door,where his coat and shoes were donned in a record amount of time.

He was down the steps and out the door before the other occupants of the room had registered what had happened.

_"She's dying you machine! Sod this. Sod this, you stay here if you want. On your own."_

The detective was suddenly back in the lab at saint Bart's, the man he loves leaving him alone.

Then it had been intentional.

Now-

Sherlock stood to follow his blogger, but was stopped by a soft hand on his arm.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry.I really am sorry. But I think that maybe John might need some time to process everything that has happened to him,alright? I mean you did just come back from the dead and now he knows that you were nearby the whole time and now he's probably thinking that you could have come home at any time and-"

Molly cut herself off, taking a deep breath and staring the detective dead in the eye.

"Sherlock. I saw him when you were gone. I visited as often as I could. He's so broken. So broken, Sherlock. And no matter how mush you will his wounds to heal, it will take time."

She leaned closer, patting his shoulder gently.

"I can see you, you know. You're broken too. I haven't the foggiest about what you did when you weren't staked out with me, but whatever it was, you need to heal from it too."

_"I don't count. What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine."_

The detective sat back down, his head once more cradled in his hands.

"I need him."


	6. Chapter 6

John marched briskly through the cooling air of the late evening, his thoughts scattered about.

Each one led him to another spark of anger.

Anger at Moriarty for starting this whole mess.

Anger at Sherlock for not telling him he was alive.

Anger at Mycroft and Molly and Lestrade and whoever the fuck else that knew that Sherlock was alive for not giving him some sort of clue.

But mostly, anger at himself for the sense of betrayal that laid heavily across his chest.

That's what it all boiled down to in the end, really.

He felt betrayed.

"Which", he reasoned, kicking at pebble in his path, "is utterly ridiculous, as he said himself that it was too keep me safe."

What really seemed to claw at him though, was that it had not been him Sherlock had called on for aide.

Instead it had been Molly.

He wasn't jealous of Molly, not in the least.

The woman was a good friend, who had cared for him throughout these past three years as best as she could.

He could not find it in himself to hold a grudge against her for withholding information from him.

Sherlock had been the one to ask that of her, after all.

As for the fact that Sherlock had lived with her instead of coming to him.

"What if something had happened there?"

_"For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."_

John thought back to the dismal track record of Molly Hooper, comparable only to his own.

Even if something had happened there, between the man he loved and Molly Hooper, he could not fault the woman.

He stopped at the thought, all the breath leaving him as it curled around the edges of his consciousness.

What if Sherlock had been with someone else, be it Molly or another, while he was supposedly dead?

The though clawed at the former doctor's chest, nesting there heavily.

A green eyed monster with claws of dread.

Could he blame him?

Yes, Sherlock knew John was alive.

No, Sherlock had no idea if John would ever take him back, or if he would come back for that matter.

Maybe?

The uncertainty of the the thought had him placing himself on the nearest bus stop bench, his arms wrapped around himself as he contemplated the situation.

Sherlock had changed, that much was clear.

He was more emotive.

More human.

In ways that John had only seen when the man was engaging in his ritualistic post-coital cuddling.

He was more pliant.

Having bent to each and every whim the former doctor had had.

If it weren't for the way he had been attempting his former dry witticisms- coupled with the fact that only Sherlock could taste like Sherlock- John would have dismissed him as a duplicate.

A doppelganger fashioned in his image to further destroy what was left of John Watson.

What then, did this mean for him?

For them?

Could he adjust to the new Sherlock, or would the detective revert back into himself the longer he was home.

Had the former doctor changed too much for his detective to take him back?

Was he too broken?

The sound of bus doors opening roused the blogger from his seat, and had him once more wandering the streets of London.

Broken.

The word floated around him.

Darkness fell as John aimlessly meandered about, his mind sorting through his tangled emotions as he sifted for a solution to the return of his flatmate.

"What I need," He muttered quietly, "is to listen to him. Properly hear him out, so that I can get a good grasp on what is going on here. Where we stand."

The doctor pulled out his phone- a standard burn phone that he had picked up shortly after throwing his Mycroft-issued one into the Thames- and scrolled through his contact list, with the intent of messaging Sherlock.

He froze, a pained laugh ripping it's way from his throat.

He didn't have a number for the consulting detective.

Sherlock was dead.

The phone suddenly let out a series of ominous beeps, before the screen flickered to black, the battery dying.

"Fucking hell."

He pocketed the phone and nearly screamed at the sky in frustration.

That was when he noticed just how late it was.

How tired he was.

How cold.

The former doctor peered around, trying to gain his bearings on where he had ended up.

The result of the search was John absolutely confirming that he hod managed to get himself irrevocably lost.

He groaned, stepping to the curb in search of a cab, when he remember that his wallet was in it's place.

On the mantel.

At Backer Street.

The next logical step was to ask for a phone, or some change for a payphone, but was met with many a, "piss off." and "fuck you."

Resigning himself to having to find his way back, John spun around, resolutely marching in what he hoped was the general vicinity of home.


	7. Chapter 7

Fifteen minuets passed of Sherlock sitting quietly at the table, staring at the wall.

Another thirty of him pacing restlessly.

After an hour, the detective threw his hands in to the air with a frustrated shout.

"He should be back by now!"

Molly sighed, hanging her head and glaring at the forgotten plates of food sitting on the table.

Only hers had been touched.

"I'm sure he's fine Sherlock. He can take good care of himself."

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, glaring down at the near-empty contact list.

"I don't have John's number."

The woman glanced up from her seat, and smirked.

"Then don't call him. He needs to calm down on his own time."

Sherlock shook his head, his fingers running distractedly through his hair.

"What is he thinking though?"

Sherlock's pacing became for frantic, his mind racing with possibilities.

"Obviously he is angry. Mostly with me, probably with you and anyone else that knew that i was alive."

He pulled his phone from his pocket, worrying it with his fingers.

"Then again John has always been the forgiving type. He's have to be to have put up with me so long, so He'll probably rationalize your behavior and deflect that anger onto me."

He threw the phone into the air, catching it effortlessly before repeating the process.

"So why was he so upset when he heard that I had been living with you? The original hypothesis of his feeling jealous of my proximity to him without his knowledge doesn't exactly fit."

He caught the phone his eyes widening as he stared at Molly.

His gaze raked over her, and his , mouth formed into a knowing 'O'.

"What, Sherlock."

Molly shifted, uncomfortable with the piercing and all-seeing gaze.

Honestly, how did John get used to that?

"He was jealous. But not of my proximity to him. Not of the fact that I was staying with you."

The mortician's brow furrowed;she shook her head.

"I'm not sure I understand Sherlock, how was he jealous then? I mean it's not like we were sleeping together or anything. Not that I wouldn't mind and all but you and John-Sherlock?"

The detective snapped his coat from the floor in the living room, his coat in his hand as he dashed door the stairs.

"Sherlock! Where are you going?"

Molly shouted after him.

She was answered with the slamming of a door.

Sherlock tucked his hair quickly into the the hat he had stuffed into his coat pocket, his preferred disguise for openly wandering the streets of London.

John felt betrayed.

Cheated on.

Broken.

That was why he had fled.

John's go-to method for conflict avoidance was for him to leave and walk off his undesirable mood.

In the past, Sherlock had left it at that.

Hacking at his violin or shooting the wall until his little doctor returned.

Usually with a light buzz that loosened his lips enough for him to toss the detective a good natured "Fuck you" and head on to bed.

This was an issue, how ever taboo the topic was, that had to be discussed.

And time was of the essence.

Sherlock hurried down the street, his pace slowed by the ingrained need to blend in with the crowd.

He glanced across the street to see a figure slumped on a bus bench, his head in his hands.

Grey-blonde hair.

Fading black jacket.

worn blue jeans.

John.

Sherlock dashed through traffic- subtly be damned- as a bus pulled in front of the stop.

By the time that the detective made it across the street, John was no where to be seen.

A whispered "No." fell from the detective's lips as his eyes followed the path of the bus.

John had left.

Really left.

The detective could contain the choked sob from leaving his chest, or the single tear that fell from his eye.

Pedestrians in the street simply brushed past him, a pebble in the river of life.

He turned down the street, no more hurried to get to his blogger, only the weight of loneliness pressing him forward.

The feeling was akin to the one he felt all those years ago, in a cab with the very same blogger as he told him no.

That it was just the adrenaline.

Just the thrill of the chase.

It had been so much more than that, a month of heated moments and passionate encounters had convinced both men of that.

Had dispelled the loneliness from Sherlock's heart.

Then he had fallen, leaving his doctor alone, but maintaining the knowledge that his blogger was alive and well, had kept it at bay.

Now here he was, truly alone with no hope of being reunited with John.

His John.

_"I will burn the heat out of you."_

It left him hollow.

A shell of a man with his heart on a south bound bus.

Sherlock trudged on, his body moving of its own accord while his mind explored the John-wing of his mind palace.

He recounted every encounter with his blogger.

Reliving every touch.

Every word.

Each memory was a treasure artifact, well cared for while being well used.

He was blind to the sunset.

Deaf to the howling of the wind.

He did not notice the rain start, or the sleek black car pull up beside him.

He was oblivious to the firm pair of hands gripping his shoulders and man handling him into the back of the car.


	8. Chapter 8

"Cold."

John Watson was staggering down the streets of London, his coat wrapped around him as he tried to find a place to warm himself.

"So fucking cold."

It was the time of night where all the shops were closed, the only lights coming from t top-floor windows and street lamps, the occasional head lamps of a passing car.

"Where is Mycroft when you need him, the bastard."

As if on cue, the sleek black car pulled up to the curb, a slightly disheveled- yet still professional looking woman stepping out.

"Doctor Watson."

John turned, his shaking form resisting the urge to fling his arms to the heavens and shout his praises.

"Oh god yes."

She smiled at him softly as he crawled into the back of the car, following swiftly after.

"What took you so long? I've been wandering about for hours."

The car pulled forward, the heat blasting through the vents as John settled into his seat.

"We were only called forward an hour ago. You can disappear quite effectively Doctor."

John smiled, the burn of his wind-bitten cheeks easing slightly.

"I suppose I should thank you for getting to me before I suffered any permanent damages."

She smiled at him warmly.

After a few moments of simply basking in the comfort of the car, the former doctor gave in to the niggling feeling of discomfort that resting in the back of his mind.

He turned in his seat, and observed the woman sitting next to him.

She looked familiar, as if he had met her once before.

He had, though the resemblance was a tough one considering that she was currently mobile free.

"Deliverance."

A nod.

"Yes, I do believe that was the last name I used with you."

The former doctor shook his head.

"Always mysterious, you. What is it today then? Destiny? Fate?"

"Aceso."

John smirked.

"Alright then, Aceso, tell me. What sort of message does Mycroft have for me now?"

The woman opened the back of the seat in front of her, pulling a manila folder out of the concealed compartment.

"The case file of one Sherlock Holmes. Or rather, a detailed synopsis of all of his exploits over the past three years."

She placed the folder solidly in John's lap.

He ran his fingers carefully over the stamp embedded in the top right corner.

"Top Secret."

The first few pages were psych evaluations of Sherlock, followed by a list of various diagnosis and recommendations.

John smirked at the word 'Psychopath' scrawled at the bottom of the page

"_I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."_

The next page was a detailed list of interactions between Sherlock and Moriarty.

Phone records, clips of CCTV footage, typed conversations.

IT was all there, from the Cabby to the Pool to the Fall.

John paused, his eyes watering at the image of Sherlock, bloodied on the ground.

The image that had haunted so many nightmares.

Next was a description of how he faked his death that left John not only confused but unsatisfied.

He'd have to get that straight from Sherlock later.

Then came a list of pictures.

Each with a name, a check mark, a location, and a date.

After the second page, John noticed the pattern.

Each date was accompanied by two initials.

CK

Confirmed Kill.

The former doctor shook his head, not wanting to believe it, but the evidence was right in front of him.

So many faces had been of people that he had known.

People that had passed by him on the street.

That had waved hello in the mornings.

Each one a confirmed associate of Moriarty.

Part of his web.

And each one, in one way or another, had been removed from existence by Sherlock.

His Sherlock.

Another read through of the locations brought a lump to the doctor's throat.

Chicago.

Johannesburg.

San Pedro Sula.

Moscow.

Berlin.

Eight pages later John felt both horrified and disgusted.

Horrified at the fact that so many dangerous people had been wandering around completely unchecked for so long.

Disgusted that Sherlock had been forced to fix the mess.

There were more pages of information.

Details of Sherlock's living conditions and various facts throughout the past three years.

John refused to read them.

He looked up, blinking away the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes.

He needed to see Sherlock.

To hug him and hold him.

To fix what was broken.

"Can, ahh, Can you take me to him now?"

The woman nodded, gently grabbing the folder.

"We are almost their sir."

John nodded, straitening his sleeves and wiping his eyes.

"Right. Thank you."

A few moments later they pulled up to a curb, Anthea-Deliverance-Aceso opening the door for John once more.

John stepped out, peering around in search of the detective.

"Err where is-"

The door behind him slammed.

"Ma'am?"

He spun around, only to see the car pulling quickly away from the curb, leaving him behind.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock expected silence as he was seated in the car.

He expected emptiness and the comfort that being alone provided.

He did not expect to hear an exasperated sigh from the other side of the car.

Nor did he expect the warm embrace he received as the car pulled away from the curb.

The slap across his right cheek, however.

"Mycroft!"

The elder Holmes smirked in his seat.

"Now that I have your attention, will you cease sulking for a moment? Lord knows you're barely tolerable when you're in a good mood."

The detective turned in his seat, stuck between glaring his brother down and returning to his mind palace simply out of spite.

"What for?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it to Sherlock.

The screen showed John sitting in the backseat of a car, Mycroft's assistant chatting with him cordially.

"Why is he with Tessa, and she off her mobile for that matter? Shouldn't he be on a bus?"

The politician sighed once more, wanting nothing more than to kick some sense into his child of a brother.

"He is in the car with Anne because I asked her to explain a few things to her. Her mobile is with Greg because he broke his. And he was never on a bus to begin with!"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I saw him though. I saw him on that bench, the bus pull up, and him disappear."

"Yes, that's what you saw. You did not, however, see him board the bus. Nor did you see him wander back into the throng of people heading downtown on the sidewalk. You simply assumed what you wanted to assume because you couldn't risk hoping that everything would be alright."

Sherlock winced at the harshness of his brother's words, and watched as Mycroft's features soften with sympathy.

_"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

"You are broken, Sherlock And I am so sorry that I had a hand in doing it. I know that I've said things to the contrary on the past but-"

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temples gently.

"Let my have this part in repairing it."

The detective shook his head.

"How? John left. He can't possibly-"

There was a crackling sound emanating from the phone, before the audio kicked in.

A voice.

John's voice.

"Can, ahh, Can you take me to him now?"

Was he talking about him?

"We are almost their sir."

Sherlock stared down at the phone, watched as his blogger fidgeted, the reddened rims of his eyes showing unshed tears.

"Right. Thank you."

He refused to let his gaze stray from the phone until John shifted forward slightly in his seat indicating that his vehicle had stopped.

"Where have you sent him, Mycroft?"

His brother simply smirked, prying his phone from the detective's fingers.

"About a block south of here. You'll bump into him casually, he'll apologize before recognizing you-"

Sherlock nodded, feeling the car arrive at it's destination.

"Just like Budapest."

Mycroft smiled.

"Let's hope that you don't replicate those events. I'd hate for Mrs. Hudson to have to deal with the stains."

Sherlock shook his head, opening the car door.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently."

The politician's laugh followed him onto the street.

Sherlock started to sprint through the near-empty street, his mind focussed only on one thing.

John.

John.

"John!"

Budapest be damned.

The detective waved and shouted for his doctor, the sence of releif at seeing him flooding his scenses.

"SHerlock?"

The former doctor shouted back, his own limps picking up momentum at the sight of the detectove comeing closer.

They sprinted towards each other, only to realize too late that they were much closer than they appeared.

With a grunt they collided into each other, sending both of them sprawling to the ground, John atop Sherlock.

A few moments passed before either man regained the ability to breath, and when they did the collapsed into a fit of giggles, clinging to eachother for support.

"Watch where you're going, git."

John managed, sitting up off the street before standing.

"I should say the same to you."

The former doctor held out his hand, helping the detective to his feet.

"Been out looking for me? Took you long enough."

Sherlock shrugged, straitening his coat.

"I got lost without my blogger."

John blinked, before crossing his arms.

"I'll say. Three years and I lived in the same flat!"

The detective winced, preparing himself for the inevitable fight that was coming.

"Three years Sherlock. And what were you doing?"

Here it comes.

"Saving the fucking world? Protecting me, us, all of us?"

Wait.

What?

"And to think all I had to do was sit at home and mourn the loss of the love of my life while he was out nearly dying every day."

The detective shook himself, completely thrown off by the change in topic.

He went to protest, to question, before a pair of lips collided firmly with his own.

He fell into the kiss, the warmth and comfort that only John could provide.

The peace that could only come when a man is reunited with his heart.

They broke apart, both wanting for air and neither one daring to draw a breath.

"How did you know?"

John straightened Sherlock's collar, his fingers caressing the wool of his coat.

"I was given your file."

Sherlock froze, fear and anxiety pooling in his stomach.

That file contained everything.

Every act that he had been forced to commit, in graphic detail.

"You aren't,,ashamed? Appalled? Disgusted? Angry? Anything?"

His voice was small, and he looked away, unable to meet his blogger's eyes.

"I was."

John said, watching pain grow in the detective's eyes.

He placed a firm hand under Sherlock's chin, guiding his gaze to meet his.

"At them. For what they put you through. What they made you do. But not you Sherlock, never you."

Sherlock let the words sink in, felt them filling some of the cracks that had formed, fixing him, repairing the damage done.

"So you know."

John nodded, stepping back, his hands grasping the detective's.

"I got the gist. I figured that you would fill me in on the details in your own time."

The detective nodded, a small smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you."

John nodded, kissing his cheek before peering around at the empty street.

"Do you have any idea where we are?"

Sherlock pulled away, a full 360 degree turn completed before he grabbed John's hand.

"Approximately a ten minute walk from baker street, if we take some back alleys."

The former doctor smiled.

"And if we run?"

Sherlock bolted, tugging an all too eager John after him, into the night.

**Author's note: I like to play with Anthea a bit. Specifically her name. My theory is that everyone calls her by the name that she first told them, except for John. John is the only person who thinks to ask her what name she is going by currently, and she uses that as a way to hint at her purpose of being there. Also I like to think that Mycroft and Sherlock have grown a bit in their relationship as siblings through this whole , back to the story, ignore me.**


	10. Chapter 10

They both arrived at Baker Street out of breath and giddy.

Neither one spoke until they were firmly behind the front door.

"That was-"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes."

A pause before both men dissolved into a it of giggles.

John doubled over, leaning against the wall, while Sherlock wrapped an arm across his mid section.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, what a mess we are."

The detective nodded, taking deep calming breaths, his head thrown back and his eyes shut.

"I know. I return from the dead, you give me a very mixed welcome home. We both end up lost only to meet, make out, and return home giggling."

John smiled broadly his hand finding Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes suddenly dark in the dim light.

"You know what wold be a great way to cap of this completely mad day."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

"Sleep."

There was no innuendo there.

No indication of amorous activities filling the night.

Sherlock quickly rearranged his features, trying not to let his lust or disappointment show.

"Right, yes. It is-"

He glanced down at his blogger's watch.

"Nearly three AM. Sleep is a good option."

He gestured up the staircase.

"Shall we?"

John nodded, his steps uneven as fatigue began to overcome the adrenaline.

He reached the top of the stairs with a huff, the urge to collapse nearly overwhelming.

He groaned, contemplating the steps to his room, before going to take refuge in his usual place on the couch.

It was only as stepped forward to pull back the blanket that he noticed the body already occupying the piece of furniture.

John umped back, startled at the sight of Molly sound asleep on the couch.

Warm hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, as Sherlock pulled him back towards the kitchen.

He leaned in lose, warm breath puffing against John's ear.

"Take my bed. There's no point in you navigating the stairs in your state."

The former doctor opened his mouth to protest, which resulted in a damning yawn.

"It's settled then."

Sherlock pushed his blogger to his bedroom door, turning on the bedside lamp and smiling at him softly.

"Good night John."

The door closed gently behind him, leaving an exhausted and confused John Watson behind.

Sherlock ignored Molly on his way up the steps to John's room, his own stamina depleting the longer he remained on his feet.

By the time that he had managed to strip out of his clothes he was to the point of collapsing.

He crawled under the covers, a prolonged sigh escaping his lips as he was assaulted by the warm and spicy scent of John Watson.

His John.

He was home.

These were the last thoughts that floated through the genius's mind before he fell back to sleep.

_The waver, the way his words felt wrong. _

_Forced._

_"Goodbye, John."_

_The sickness, the bile rising in his throat as his eyes misted over with tears. _

_" No. Don't—"_

_The fall of his stomach matching the falling of his best friend._

_"Sherlock!"_

_His head colliding with the pavement._

_The blurring of his vision as he scrambled forward._

_"I'm his friend."_

_The body, HIS body, bloodied, still warm._

_No pulse._

_"Oh god no."_

_"John!"_

The doctor bolted upright, his body shaking and tears streaming down his cheeks.

"John. Shh John I'm here."

Warm arms wrapped around him, holding him.

His arms.

The smell of Sherlock so close.

The feel of him pressed against him.

The beating of his pulse against the doctor's skin.

"Sherlock."

The word was weak, a whisper in the air.

"Yes. Yes John. I'm here, You're alright. We're alright."

That voice, deep, soothing.

Something was wrong with it.

"Sherlock?"

The former doctor turned in the dark, his fingers reaching out to find the detective's face.

They collided with soft curls before trailing down to defined cheekbones, the smooth skin damp to the touch.

Further investigation revealed a trebling lip letting loose shaky puffs of breath.

John wanted to mention it, but decided against it, considering he was in exactly the same shape.

He simply wrapped his own arms around Sherlock, burying his face in the other man's shoulder while laying back down in his arms.

There are a few moments of wriggling around to get comfortable,John ending up curled against Sherlock's chest, the detective running his fingers through his bloggers short, silver-blonde hair.

They simply rest like this for a few moment,s neither one wanting to break the spell that surrounded them.

Finally, John let out an exhausted sigh.

"Sherlock, what are you dong in here?"

The detective's fingers paused, his chest rising as he drew in a long breath.

"I, had a nightmare."

There.

Short, to the point.

Honest.

"Me too."

Sherlock chuckled, the motion jostling his blogger slightly.

"Obviously."

John smiled, despite the sarcasm lacing the tone.

"You'd think I'd be used to them by now."

Sherlock frowned down at John, his face contorting in an effort to get a glimpse at John in the pitch black of the room.

"John-"

the former doctor shook his head.

"It's not your fault. I mean, it is you, but you had to do it and I-"

The image of Sherlock laying in a pool of blood filled his senses once more and he shuddered, Sherlock's arms gripping him tighter.

"I am sorry, John. So very sorry."

The waver had returned to the detective's voice.

John buried his ace in the sot curls on Sherlock's chest, his cheek resting there.

"What was yours about? I mean if you don't want to talk about it-"

Sherlock shook his head, the motion carrying through his body.

"No, it's alright. Funnily enough they were about you. They are always about you."

John glanced up, squinting in vain to see his detective's expression.

"How are they about me?"

"The what ifs and cold have beens John. What if you'd said no at Barts. What if you hadn't shot that cabby, or knocked over that bow. What if Moriarty had set that bomb off at the pool, or I had shot it."

His voice was getting progressively rougher, emotion flooding it.

"What if you stepped on a mine at Baskerville, or I hadn't taken the fall. Those were what they used to be."

John ran a and over Sherlock shoulder, his fingers tracing the fresh scars he found there.

"Used to be?"

The detective sighed.

"After the fall they turned a bit more, well, domestic. What if you moved on? Settled down with some beautiful woman in a nice home with your own practice in the country. You with your 2.5 kids and your perfect life without me. Or not. What if you never moved on?"

Another sigh.

"And then there were nights where I thought, 'What if you didn't take me back?'"

John stopped running his fingers over Sherlock's skin, shuffling forward to place his lips upon the detective's.

"You can let those go Sherlock. I'm here, now. I'm with you, and we will be fine. We will always be fine."

Sherlock laughed again his lips finding John's cheek before he nuzzled their cheeks together.

"It's good to hear that John."

John sighed, the smell and feel of Sherlock lulling his exhausted body slowly to sleep.

"Promise me that you'll be here when I wake up."

Sherlock nodded, his hands rubbing John's T-shirt clad back soothingly.

John fell asleep nearly instantly, his face slack against Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective tilted his head back, his eyes brimming with tears at the injustice of it all.

He did not deserve this man.

He did not deserve his kindness, or his love.

He did not deserve his forgiveness.

So he would earn it.

He would become worthy.


	11. Chapter 11

Cold.

That was the first thing that John noticed.

His entire left side was cold.

With the sigh of a man awakening a pleasant dream, he pulled himself upright, and ran his fingers through his hair.

It had all been a dream then.

A beautiful, wonderful, painfully realistic dream.

Figures.

The former doctor swung himself from the bed, and froze at the sight of his door ajar.

It wasn't his door.

Another quick look and he paled.

He had slept in Sherlock's room.

He hadn't done that in months.

It did ft that dream, however.

"No Watson. It wasn't really. He's dead, remember? Been dead three years. Don't loose it now."

Carefully, as if trying not to break whatever spell he had been caught in, the doctor krept from the room, to see none other than Molly Hooper sitting at his kitchen table reading from her Kindle while sipping a mug of tea.

"Molly?"

The woman glanced up. Smiling softly at the former doctor.

"Good Morning John."

He simply stared at her, trying to figure out why she was here, what could possibly be so good about the morning.

He makeup was minimal, her hair dampened slightly around her face, but otherwise dry.

Slept in her makeup, rinsed it of when she woke up, less then twenty minuets ago.

Her clothing was rumbled in places, but otherwise in tact.

Her neck looked stiff, her posture more rigid and pained the average.

She crashed the couch.

Just like John had dreamed of.

"What. Why are you here?"

She looked up at him, surprised by the broken and pained tone of voice.

Even more so the way his eyes were narrowed, every feature looking haggard and pained.

Oh.

"John. Sherlock is still here. He hasn't left you he's just_"

The man walked into the room, towel wrapped around his hips, another rubbing his wet curls.

"Just getting ready for the day. Morning John."

The detective's eyes took in the image before him, and he sighed, stepping forward slowly before placing a reassuring had n John's shoulder.

"It wasn't a dream."

His blogger shuddered, collapsing in on himself and wrapping his arms firmly around the detective.

Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, looking Molly straight in the eye before nodding towards the door.

She nodded, setting her mug down before standing from her chair, leaving the pair alone.

"You know John, I was almost back. If you could have slept just seven more minuets, I would have been right there."

The doctor rolled his eyes, pulling away and clenching his fist tightly.

He had the urge to strike the detective, but the bruises from the previous day had yet to fade, and the marks and scars that littered his previously flawless chest already had John's mind switching from angered to sympathetic.

Feeling more like a petulant child than a grown man, he simply shook his head.

"You're right. Sorry. I'm just-"

He shook his head again, clearing his throat distractedly.

"Why don't you go put some clothes on, and I'll just, erm, make breakfast."

His awkward transition from visibly angered to some hollow embodiment of his former self disconcerted the detective.

"John,what's wrong? What-"

_"Promise me that you'll be here when I wake up."_

_Failed him again._

The Detective's eyes widened, and he placed another hand On John's shoulder, spinning him around and crashing thier lips together suddenly.

The former doctor froze and pulled back, shocked and more than a little afraid.

"Sherlock."

His voice was low, dangerous.

The voice of a soldier who had been cornered.

Shit.

The detective backed up a pace, his fingers running through his still damp curls in frustration.

He wanted to comfort his blogger, yet his every move seemed to harm him.

He paced around the room, his arms flailing as his frustration grew.

John watched, mesmerized and more than a little concerned by his former (current?) flatmate's behavior.

"Sherlock. Mate, what's wrong."

The detective paused, his lips parted as he registered that John was still in the room.

That he could see him.

The former doctor's face spoke volumes.

Not good.

"I don't know what to do."

The words were whispered, barely audible eve in the sudden stillness of the room.

John simply crooked his head, confused.

"Don't know what to do what? I just told you to get dressed. I'm sure you can find something to wear. You haven't forgotten how to put your pants on have you?"

Sherlock stared at him, open mouthed and utterly lost.

"John. I'm talking about us. I don't know what to do here."

He waved between them.

_That was it then._

John thought, his features clouding over.

_He's woken up and seen things as they are._

He sighed, hanging his head.

"Look Sherlock-"

"I keep failing you and I don't know how to stop. How do I become worthy of you?"

John stopped, mid-sentence, his brow furrowing further, lips pursed.

What?

"Sorry. You. Are failing me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his hand going to catch the towel that was threatening to fall from his hips.

"Yes John. I know that I am. I don't need you reiterating it. I just want to know how to stop."

There was a dangerously long pause with John and Sherlock simply staring at each other before the former doctor burst into laughter, his hand clutching the counter beside him.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Sherlock. You've never failed me, or anything like that. Saved me, yes Hurt me in the process of saving me? A necessary evil I suppose. But you've never failed me."

Sherlock simply stared forward, his expression blank, though his eyes were full of disbelief.

"I mean there was that one time when I specifically told you not to put kidneys in the bunt pan, but that was a long time ago."

John wiped his eye, moving forward to place a light kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"If that's what you're all off about, then relax. You've not failed anybody."

His hand came to rest over the fading criss-cross scars lacing Sherlock's shoulder.

"As for being worthy of me, this isn't some C-grade Arthurian romance novel. You don't need to 'prove your worth for the fair maiden."

his hand moved down to Sherlock's hip.

"And I am no maiden."

He kissed the Detective once more, a light peck on the lips.

"However, if all this senescence translates into you feeling bad for leaving-"

He pulled Sherlock's hand up and let it rest over his heart.

"Then let me assure you that it was worth it. Because we are both alive."

The detective seemed to come back to himself, his eyes blinking and refocusing in on his blogger, the beating of John's heart steady under his palm.

After a few moments of simply existing, he let out a shaky laugh.

"To think, I was worried about having to reassure you. Not the other way around."

John let out a light chuckle of his own.

"The Mighty Sherlock Holmes admitting he was wrong? What is this world coming too?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and playfully smacked the back of his hand against John's chest.

"Don't get used to it. I'm simply off my game."

John nodded, stepping back again.

"I'm sure Resurrection will do that to you."

Sherlock didn't know whether to apologize once more for his Fall, or simply take the comment.

"It was a joke, Sherlock. Don't stare at me like you want to hide me in your closet. I've seen that look."

His gaze ran once more over Sherlock, lingering again at the bruises he himself had inflicted.

"Now please go get dressed. It's very distracting to have you running around in only a towel."

Sherlock smirked, pulling off the towel and tossing it over his shoulder.

"Whatever you say John."

The former doctor blushed crimson, his mouth going dry as his yes lingered over the now-lightly-tanned skin before him.

The detective turned on his heels, dutifully marching toward's John's room.

The former doctor himself turned back to the counter, trying to control his breathing while he readied the tea.

Two mugs, this time.

Just as it should be.

As he pulled a mug from the cupboard, however, he heard a scream.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

And footsteps pounding up the stairs.

John smiled to himself.

"Serves him right."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock leaned his back against the door, his breathing heavy from his panicked flight.

There was little more embarrassing than the woman you relate as your bother catching you in the nude.

One of those things being catching you in the nude after walking out of the same room as another person.

Laughter filtered up the stairs, adding a slight warmth to the detective's cheeks.

He shook his head slightly,trying to clear his thoughts.

What had John told me?

Put your clothes on.

First thing's first.

Pants.

Sherlock considered simply redressing in his previous outfit, though as he looked at the wrinkled and stained mess that it had become, he decided against it.

Instead, he moved to John's dresser, and dug through drawer after drawer until he was rewarded with the oversizesd blue pajama bottoms that John had been sentimental enough to keep.

Further digging revealed a few of his old T-shirts and his robe.

Never before had the detective been so thankful for his blogger's attachments.

The only thing that he couldn't find was a pair of pants.

A thought struck him, full and forceful.

Without further ado, he dressed, a wicked smirk gracing his Hudson came into the kitchen, her face red.

_**Meanwhile**_

"Goodness me what a way to start the day."

John Chuckled, the sound shaking his shoulders as he quickly started the toast.

"Yea, the git still has no decency."

The landlady burst out laughing, the former doctor unable to resist joining in.

After he had managed to catch his breath, he leaned back against the counter, his still-too-hot mug in his hands.

"I'm sorry you had to see that though. It seems to be one shock after another."

The woman nodded, settling herself down in one off the kitchen chairs.

After a few moments of simply smiling at him, John grew uncomfortable.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing anywhere but Mrs. Hudson.

"What?"

Her smile widened, and she drummed her fingers playfully against the counter top.

"So making up for lost time, are we?"

John shook his head, a sad sort of smile in place, despite the blush that was creeping up his neck.

"No, nothing like that I'm afraid. He only just pulled a Lazarus, I don't think we are ready for that just yet."

Sherlock appeared from around the corner, his standard lounge wear in place.

"Don't think we're ready for what?"

Both pairs of eyes fell on him, their conversation silenced.

"Err. Sherlock. Good to see that you found, umm those."

The former doctor pointed at him, his hand's not leaving his mug.

Mr's Hudson smiled knowingly at John, his halting speech belaying his thoughts of the detective's attire.

After all, it didn't take a genius to notice how his physic had changed.

The previously comfortable T-shirt was now a half size too small, revealing toned muscles with every movement.

His bottoms, on the contrary, were even baggier than before, the apparent physical activity of the past three years having thinned his waist impossibly smaller.

The effect of such a sight had the former doctor staring, his gaze darkened and lips parted.

"Yes, they were a very convenient find. I must say your sentimentality can be relied upon."

The toaster went off, Sherlock bending around his blogger to grab the toast before shoving it into his mouth.

A flash of red had caught the former doctor's eye.

John was frozen to the spot, his mind working feverishly to process what he had seen.

Had those been-

No he wouldn't.

Would he?

That bastard, of course he would.

"John."

The detective muttered through chewing his toast.

"What aren't we ready for?"

The former doctor shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Forget that I said anything."

Mrs. Hudson raised a critical eyebrow, a knowing wink cast in the direction of her recently reunited tenants.

Sherlock smiled openly at the woman.

"I take it yo spent most of yesterday evening with your sister."

She nodded.

"I stayed all night actually. Just got back in a few hours ago. Took a quick nap before coming up to see you two."

She rolled her eyes.

"Saw more than I wanted too, thank you."

The detective stifled a blush, while John simply smirked.

"I, well. It was John's fault really."

The doctor gaped at the detective, surprised.

" How the fuck-Sorry Mrs. Hudson- Is it MY fault. You're the one who whipped his towel off in the kitchen before prancing about the flat."

Sherlock threw hos hands up.

"I do not prance, John. And you started it by staring!"

"I wouldn't have been staring if you would have been wearing some fucking clothing."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, clapping her hands sharply to earn both men's attention.

"Enough. Both of you. Let's just not aim for a repeat, yes?"

John glanced at Sherlock mischievously, an unspoken conversation flickering between them at the mere thought of such a challenge.

Their landlady cleared her throat, eyeing the two of them wit ha soft smile.

"Should I come back at another time?"

Both men turned to her unanimous exclamations of "Yes!" and "No" filling the air.

John elbowed Sherlock in his still-bruised ribs, earning him a pained growl.

"No Mrs. Hudson. Stay. I'm sure that you have a thousand questions for Sherlock."

No one missed the way the detective's eyes widened in both panic and horror.

"No, I believe Sherlock answered the majority yesterday."

Disappointment flickered across John's features.

He had been looking forward to a more in depth look at Sherlock's ordeal.

One that was not in between the covers of a manila folder.

"Well there is one question that I do have, though I don't think this is the appropriate time or setting to ask it."

She pointed around them, at the mess their kitchen had become in the span of the day.

The disheveled men standing in the middle of it.

"Tell you boys what. I'll set up dinner tonight, and phone you with the details."

She was already up, her hands clasped to her chest.

"Oh it'll be lovely! Like a little reunion party."

The detective went to protest, but one glance at the excitement in Mrs. Hudson's eyes defeated any semblance of rebellion he had.

He let out a forlorn sigh, rubbing his face with his hand.

"Fine."

The woman tottered out of the room, before poking her head in the door quickly.

"Oh, and John? Thank you for being merciful on Mr. Disappearing act. I'd have beaten him far worse if I'd have been you."

She winked at John, before glaring playfully at the detective.

"Anyway, take care boys."

With that she was gone, the sound of her heels clicking against the steps the only thing filling the resulting silence.

Sherlock coughed awkwardly, grabbing his rapidly cooling tea from the counter, before John grabbed his arm.

"Alright Sherlock. I have just one thing to say to you."

His tone was stern, reprimanding.

Commanding.

"For fuck's sake why are you wearing my pants?"


	13. Chapter 13

The detective's features remained stoic as he leaned against the counter.

"Seriously. I know that you spend much more time than is decent without pants at all. What's the point in wearing them now?"

"Is this some sort of experiment or something to test me?"

Nothing, just a tilt of the head.

John paced in front of him, his mind racing.

What was he getting at.

Sherlock used to play him like this.

Always to get what he wanted.

The pen.

The milk.

So what does he want now?

Sherlock shrugged again, his too-tight shirt rolling up over his middle.

He made no move to correct the issue, instead letting the skin show.

John glanced up, then at the detective, pursing his lips and shaking his head.

That was it then.

This was a game.

"No. Sherlock. I know what you're trying to do. It won't work."

He crossed his arms, feet planted firmly beneath him.

"I won't give in."

Sherlock placed his mug onto the counter behind him with a sigh, before turning to look at his blogger.

"John, I know that this may come as a shock to you, but I actually do not have any ulterior motives to wearing clothing. I just wanted to cover myself."

The former doctor gestured to the expanse of stomach on display.

"Well you're doing a piss poor job at it."

Sherlock smirked.

The smallest of smiles at his friend.

John would have missed it had he not been so focused in on him.

Damn him and that mouth of his.

It was all that the former doctor could do not to give in, and pull the detective to him.

Sherlock noticed the tension in his blogger.

He watched him clench and unclench his jaw.

Saw how his lips pursed and thinned as he tried to work through his thoughts.

Observed how he shifted from one foot to another, his right leg stiffer than it aught to be.

Finally John's posture relaxed, and the detective was treated with his signature-if rare- mischeivous grin.

Never before had such a look been more welcome, than that smile after three years of absence.

"You want to play games Sherlock? Fine. We can play."

He set his mug onto the the table, moving himself flush with the detective, his fingers a whisper away from the skin if the detective's stomach.

"If your intent on this, and I know you are. Then I'm in. Winner gets to decide what happens next."

With that John strode from the room, leaving a confused, frightened, and undeniably aroused Detective in his wake.

John marched resolutely to his room, a plan for exactly how he was going to seduce Sherlock already forming in his head.

This was a game he knew well.

And test of wills.

Which person would give in first.

John shook his head when he saw the state of his dresser, how bis clothes had been tossed about in Sherlock's no doubt meticulous search of his belongings.

There were very few items if clothing that John owned that Sherlock had yet to see.

He hadn't purchased anything truly new since The Fall, opting instead to care for what he had.

In retrospect -If one could say that about a life plan that had only changed 24 hours ago- It was the stratagem of a man ready for death.

And man simply biding his time until his inevitable end.

With that in mind, there were still the gifts he had received in apology from various persons, no doubt in an attempt to cheer him up.

Help him move on.

John laughed quietly to himself as he removed the case from the back of his closet.

Move on from a lie.

Sherlock was alive, and Mycroft knew.

He tossed the case onto his bed and pulling out of the garment bags within.

He checked each one for the date pinned to it.

After the fifth knew he came across the one he was searching for, with the most recent date price ted on the paper tag.

This one was accompanied by a note.

Doctor Watson,

We new suit for your interview Tuesday at The Imperial College School of Medicine.

8:45. With Professor Andrew Denton.

And car will be waiting.

-Mycroft

He had resolutely ignored the interview, opting instead to sneak out in the early morning and look after the homeless network for the day.

The suit, however, was the only item of clothing he owned that would be tailored to his drastically thinned physic.

He unzipped the black bag and pulled out the dark blue suit, complete with matching tie and cream shirt.

With a smirk, he re-bagged the suit, before hiding the rest of them and dashing down the stairs.

He was met with an empty room, the silence alleviated by the sound of voices floated up from the stairwell, followed by the unmistakable thumping of boots on the stairs.

John made his way to the bathroom, his mind set on victory.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: Tiny touch of smut, with more to come. More of a filler chapter, really.**

Sherlock had heard the car pull up long before the occupant knocked on his door.

"Finally."

He threw himself down the stairs at breakneck speeds, bent on ridding the flat of the insufferable presence of his brother as soon as possible.

"Mycroft."

The detective stated dryly, his brother perched in the doorway, propped against his black umbrella casually.

"Sherlock. I'm glad that you made it home well last night."

He swung the cane out to point at the closed flesh on the detective's middle.

"I see that the good doctor has once again let you into his good graces. Shall I be sending supplies?"

Sherlock refused to rise to the bait.

"Just give me my belongings and kindly leave. I've a very important day ahead, and would like to do so without your presence."

The older Holmes smirked, his umbrella tapping the floor in repaid succession.

Two black clad woman appeared at the door, each pushing a dolly stacked with boxes.

And third and forth worker carried a large truck between them, containing -no doubt- the detective's new wardrobe.

"Fergus finished my suits I take it."

Mycroft nodded.

"Mr. McLeod was extraordinarily pleased to receive the news that you were, indeed, in need of his services again."

The detective hummed.

"I'm sure he was. He's always been fond of my business."

Another nod.

"Among other things."

He gestured towards the stairs, the workers hastily moving there burdens up the steps.

"Anything else Mycroft?"

His brother simply smiled, his lips pressed firmly together, before turning on his heels, his cursory words of warning forgotten.

Sherlock made his way up the steps to see the four workers standing in a semi-circle around the trunk, their expressions open and egar underneath thin masks of professionalism.

The smallest of the group, a trim brunette, with close cropped hair and coal black eyes stepped forward, her posture a echoing with authority.

"Mr. Holmes has informed us of our duty to -"

Sherlock snorted derisively, peeling out of his shirt -with complete and utter disregard for the others in the room-while simultaneously waving them away.

"Yes yes, I know what Mycroft told you to do. Get back to your car, I can dress myself."

They stood around uncomfortably as the detective cracked open the trunk, riffling through hanging suit after hanging suit until he selected the one he wanted.

When he noticed that they had yet to leave, he straitened to his full height, his eyes burning, while his features remained stoic.

The glare alone sent them to the door, two of them stumbling in their hasty retreat.

No sooner had the door slammed behind them did the detective hear the shower start.

He allowed himself a soft smile as he sifted through the hanging selection of shirts.

His fingers caressed the ink black silk of his newest shirt, the fabric a stark contrast to his ivory skin.

He pulled it on, slipping into the charcoal grey suit quickly, the well tailored suit hugging him perfectly.

With a final tug on his blazer, he turned to the mirror, admiring the fit of his new clothing.

He examined his appearance for a few moments more,combing his curls into a slightly more controlled mess before playing with the buttons of his collar until he came to a level of indecency that he knew John wouldn't be able to resist.

The sound of running water cutoff followed by the slapping of wet feet against tile, alerting Sherlock to the time.

He shut the trunk, latching it firmly before flopping carelessly onto the couch.

Now, it was time to wait.

**SHSHSHSH**

John stood in the shower, the icy water doing nothing to cool his racing thoughts.

It was clear that no mater how cold he ran the shower, his mind would still wander back to the image of Sherlock in his ill-fitting clothing standing in the center of the kitchen, his eyes glowing with the passion he thought long dead.

Granted, he thought that everything about that man had been long dead, still.

Reluctantly, he warmed the tap and hissed as the change in temperature burned his skin.

The change in sensation drew fire from his nerves, setting him on edge.

He ran a hand down his chest is cheeks burning at the feeling of his far too gaunt figure while his mind filled with images of Sherlock's filled out features.

A chuckle ripped from his throat at the thought that Sherlock was actually thicker than he was now, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

The hand reached is shaft, stroking himself slowly to the image of toned muscles and silver eyes.

He leaned against the shower wall, one fist stuffed into his mouth while the other twisted and pulled.

Tears of shame and anticipation fell from his eyes.

Shame for what he had become in the wake of the fall.

The shell of what he used to be.

The opposite of what Sherlock Holmes had fallen for.

Anticipation for the future.

For the evening that he could see playing before his eyes.

Those where the images that he shuddered to as he reached the edge, one quick twist toppling him over the edge.

He too a few moments to catch his breath, the less than stellar orgasm leaving him feeling unsatisfied.

Quickly, he lathered and rinsed his body, washing his hair and turning shutting the shower off.

John hastily padded across the room, rubbing himself with the warm owel hanging by the door.

He heard the squeak of the couch, no doubt as the detective flopped onto it.

With the deliberate efficiency of a soldier, he dressed in is battle armaments, the knotting of the dark blue tie finishing the ensemble.

A hasty styling of his too-long hair had him grinning at the reflection in the mirror.

It reality was amazing how much power a good suit and a good night's rest could change the appearance of a man.

The reflection looking back at him in the mirror was not the clinically depressed former soldier with PTSD and physical disabilities, but a suave and stately looker with a slim physic and the posture of an officer.

"Huh."

A double check with the straitening of buttons saw the former doctor marching into the living room.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock refused to look.

One lesson learned from his years in the field had been that one should not allow the opposition to strike first.

But he'd be dammed if he said that he wasn't burning to see what the former doctor had managed to dig up.

As far as he knew, John owned only two suits and his military dress clothes.

Instinct told him that his information was outdated.

Indeed when he heard his bloggers sharp intake of breath, and allowed himself to glance over, he felt the air flee his lungs, leaving him light headed and winded.

John looked fantastic The image of a thin and sickly former army doctor was erased, and replaced with the visage of this suave, seductively attractive man, with a trim figure and almost regal posture.

Had not been for those deep blue/brown eyes grazing over him with barely concealed hunger, he had scarcely recognized him.

"Well, it looks like your brother managed to get a hold of your old tailor."

Sherlock shook himself, his mind trying to reboot after such a shock to the harddrive.

"Ahh, yes. Yes. He did, apparently for you as well."

John smirked, stepping forward to peak into a box, only to slam the lid down and grimace.

"Your brother is very generous when he feels guilty."

The detective snorted.

"Naturally it would be Mycroft to by you something like that."

The former doctor glanced down, as if inspecting his clothing.

"What's wrong with this outfit?"

Sherlock swung his legs off of the couch, sitting up.

"Well the color, it washes you out, makes you look paler."

John crossed his arms.

"Sherlock, I am pale. I live in London, for one thing, and i'm indoors most of the time."

The detective stood, gesturing at John.

"And the cut, it makes you look too thin."

The former Doctor sighed, and shook his head.

"You really have nothing bad to say about this outfit, do you Sherlock. Just admit that I'm incredibly attractive, get out of your clothes and tame me to bed."

Such a blunt move was unexpected, and once again caught the detective off guard.

"Your pillow talk leaves something to be desired."

John shrugged, maneuvering himself to lean against the back of a chair.

"I've not had cause to use it in three years, sorry if it's a touch blunt."

At the mention of the three years that had pulled him away from his blogger, Sherlock felt himself compelled forward, a hand nearly reaching out to him.

To touch.

To reassure.

He stopped himself short, his mind bringing back around the knowledge of his current objective.

Seduce John Watson.

The aforementioned Watson watched as the emotions running through his genius' eyes, his own features calmly controlled in the mask that he had perfeced over the years.

Well.

Almost perfected.

"You know John, it's going to take more than rough words and nice clothes to win this."

The smirk returned to the former doctor's face.

"So you admit that you think that this suit is nice."

The detective balked, before scowling at the doctor.

"you little-"

"Yoo-hoo, boys!"

The tottering foot steps once again made there way up the stairs.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade was just-"

She stopped in the doorway, the motion so eerily reminiscent of the night before that Sherlock's heart quickened slightly, his breath catching in his throat.

Her and flew to her chest, a wide smile splitting her features.

"You too look so dapper! Oh, I could hire you out as models, I could."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, while John blushed.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, for the, ahh, the compliment. I don't quite know about a forty year old man being a model but-"

"Thirty eight."

John turned to Sherlock, who was still standing statue still, his eyes unfocused.

Glazed.

"Pardon?"

"You're thirty eight."

The former doctor shifted his weight to his other leg, arms still crossed and face set sternly.

"Yea, so?"

Sherlock seemed to come into himself, if ever so slightly.

"So-though I do loathe repetition-you said that you were forty. That is depriving yourself of two more years than necessary."

John's brow furrowed further, once more in confusion.

"Why does that bother you?"

The detective's face fell, the same lost look that had filled his features nearly five years ago- when he had asked what his blogger would say when face with death- had returned.

It was so mournful that John immediately regretted asking.

"Sherlock-"

His features returned to normal, hard edges and firm expressions intact as he turned to the landlady.

"You said that Lestrade was here?"

All business.

Oh boy.

"Err, yes. He said something about wanting to see you about a case. I-"

Sherlock rushed past the landlady and down the steps.

"Blood hell."

John followed suit, sprinting to catch up with his long-legged detective.

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her hand's clasped to her chest.

"Oh I do hope that they're back in time for dinner. I'd hate to get another reservation."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock sprinted down the street, finally catching up with the Detective Inspector.

"Lestrade!"

He huffed trying to catch his breath quickly.

The Detective Inspector spun around,caught of guard by the sight of the impeccably dressed Sherlock double over, taking deep breaths of air.

He was equally as surprised to see an even more remarkably dressed John Watson sprinting towards the two of them.

"Sherlock? John? What in the name of-"

"The case."

Sherlock huffed, righting himself.

John caught up to them then, leaning against Sherlock as he tried to catch his own breath.

"Gees John! You alright?"

Lestrade stepped forward, wrapping a hand around John's shoulder, helping him stand straight up.

"Yea. I'm- I ,uhh...Just out of... breath."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to wrench his blogger away from the Detective Inspector.

Instead he opted for snapping at the former doctor.

"It's most likely due to the significant lack of physical activity in the previous few years. That, no doubt, was brought on by your completely irrational psychological trauma stemming from my obviously feigned death. The case Lestrade."

Both Greg and the former doctor looked up at him, astonished and more than slightly angered at his remark.

"A simple strangling. Third one this week. I thought that you might enjoy something small to get you back into the swing of things but it's clear to me now that you are nowhere near ready to be back out in the field."

Lestrade's comment bit at the detective, his features softening, hurt pooling behind his eyes.

John saw this and sighed.

"Greg, give'im the case. He's just being a dick because he's bored."

Lestrade examined the former doctor's features carefully,brow furrowed as he searched for any sort of resentment at the comment that he had relieved from Sherlock.

Finding none, he shook his head, turning his full attention to the detective.

"Alright. I have a car coming for us."

He pointed in front of him,face scrunched in fury.

"But anymore remarks like that to John or anyone else at the sight and I'll see to it that you're never allowed at another crime scene in this hemisphere what your brother says be damned."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement regardless.

As the car pulled up to the curb for them, Sherlock was the first to crawl in, Lestrade behind him and John on the other side much to the displeasure of the consulting detective.

John smirked at the ever increasing tension in the car, his head turned to peer out the window.

The DI fidgeted in his seat.

He could feel Sherlock tensing beside him, the way that the cold-as-iceman was boiling over with barely repressed anger.

It was something that he had felt before, during the three years that the detective had been presumed dead.

Back when he had been forced to relay to Sherlock that his blogger had moved on and was planning on moving away.

He bit his lip nervously, praying that they were getting closer to the crime scene.

Never, in his life, had he been so glad to see the flashing of siren lights.

Sherlock was the first to get out of the car, his long legs striding purposefully towards the yellow tape.

He dashed under, letting the strip of plastic snap back into place right in front of the detective inspector.

Petty, yes, but worth it.

When John arrived at the line, however, Sherlock held the tape up, letting the former doctor pass under before walking after him.

The short walk to the body was filled with murmurs and shocked stares.

Of all of them, none was as dramatic as Anderson, who nearly collapsed against the side of the cruiser he had been standing by.

John had to smirk at that, though the detective kept his composure and didn't even grace the others at the scene with his attention.

The pair stopped at the stoop of row house, the body laying crumpled on the steps.

Even from a distance the see purple marks on the skin were visible.

"Well it appears that you were correct about the strangulation, like that wasn't obvious."

He stepped close, John not far behind.

"Rigorous Mortus has not fully set it, so dead less than twenty four hours."

The consulting Detective bent over the body of the dead man.

"Thirty five years old, not married. No children or long term partner. Judging by the state of his clothing he was just leaving this house, obviously trying to get out before the resident awoke, judging by the estimated time of death. A one night stand."

Sherlock glanced around him, ignoring the shocked looks on the faces around him, nor did he see the tears that were pooling in his bloggers eyes.

"Resident is male, around the age of thirty two. Not the murderer, obviously, though I suspect you idiots have him in custody anyway."

He noticed a few shoe prints, barely visible despite the moderate sunshine, on the corner of the stoop.

"Your murdered sat and waited for the victim to leave the house, stood here for approximately thirty minutes. Premeditated then."

He took another gaze around this time, cataloging each and every detail of this environment, while simultaneously remaining oblivious the fact that John had slipped away.

"You're looking for a man, approximately 1.8 meters in height, and 14 stone. Average build."

The detective's attention caught n a mark across the back of the victims hand.

"John what do you think."

No answer, just the awkward shuffling and whispered murmurs of the yarders.

Sherlock glanced up, standing from his crouch when he didn't immediately see his blogger.

When he didn't see him at all, he panicked, the fear that etched itself on his features visible for each set of eyes to behold.

_Open your eyes. _

_Observe!_

Lestrade was still there, staring at him intensely, some of the forensics team were glancing over their shoulders-down the street- while the others where still staring at him, open mouthed.

Oh.

He did just come back from the dead, didn't he?

But where was John?

He made his way from the corpse, striding purposefully to Lestrade

"Sherlock, don't tell me that that's all that you've got for me."

The detective straightened his back, appalled.

"He just gave you a description of the murders, cause and time of death of the victim, confirmation that you do, in fact, have a serial killer on your hands, and proved the innocence of the man you have in custody. What else do you need?"

Lestrade umped, the sudden outburst from the unseen entity startling him, and apperently Sherlock as well.

John stepped out from behind forensic's truck, his eyes red rimmed, but his cheeks were free of tears.

"Honestly, it's like he never left. Now, for that mark on the victims hand, Sherlock, I have no idea what it is. Lestrade, would you send the crimescened photos and the files on the other two victims to the flat please?"

The DI simply nodded, dumbfounded by the sudden authority of the former doctor.

"Alright then. Are you done here Sherlock?"

The man held up a hand, asking for a moment.

He strode over to Anderson, who-by this point- had attempted to hide from sight.

"Anderson."

The man turned around, shock poorly disguised.

"Heh, well would you look at that. The infamous Sherlock Holmes arises from the dead to-"

"Arisen."

Anderson squinted at the detective.

"What?"

"The proper way to phrase that would be that 'The infamous Sherlock Holmes as arisen from the dead.'"

His face simply contorted with confusion as he replayed the sentence over again.

"Why don't you take a few eons to think on that."

Sherlock pulled John away , both men bursting into giggles as soon as the were out of earshot.

"Sherlock, you do realize that both sentences were grammatically correct, don't you?"

The consulting detective nodded, the grin that split his features feeling foreign.

"Why were you crying?"

John sighed.

"Why did you run out of the flat?"

The detective hesitated, a light bush tinting his cheeks while his smile fell.

"You said that you were 40, when you are 38."

The former doctor nodded, crossing his arms.

"Yes, I did, that doesn't explain anything."

Sherlock threw his hands up.

"Yes it does! John! You said that you were 40 when you are 38! You intentionally shortened your life by two years! I've already been forced to lose three years with you, why on earth would I not get upset over you trying to steal two more from me?"

The former doctor stood frozen him mouth suddenly dry.

"Sher- you really, I-"

He shook his head, glancing around him for somewhere, anywhere private.

This was not a conversation that they should be having in public.

John gripped the detective's hand and tugged him up the street, yanking him into the dimly lit corridor of an alleyway.

"Is that why you were upset?"

The detective nodded, running his hand through his mop of curls.

"Sherlock, just because I've rounded up my age doesn't mean I'm shortening anything. Hell you're the scientist, you should know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I dabble in Chemistry John, I'm hardly a scientist. And it's the principle of it. I simply don't care for the idea that I have less time with you than I already do."

The doctors eyes softened and Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the man before him.

The thin and musty sunlight that filtered down through the alley left his his impossibly dark blue eyes and gray-blonde hair glittering.

He must have been staring, because John gently placed his hand on the detective's cheek.

"Sherlock are you okay?"

He managed a nod, before stooping his head down and crashing his lips against the doctor's.

The kiss was anything but chaste, heavy lips and heated movements forcing the detective against the wall, the brick shearing at the delicate silk shirt.

Neither man cared as they pressed infinitely closer to each other, Sherlock widening his stance so that the the former doctor could step between his legs.

He wormed is hands under John's blazer, tugging clumsily at his shirt in an effort to get his hands on skin.

Managing it to slide his fingers over the curve f John's back, one hand slipping down to grab the man's ass.

John, for his part, was doing a fantastic ob of ruining any semblance of order fund with Sherlock's hair.

He raked his fingers through the silken curls, admiring the sensation that he had gone far too long without.

Each pull at a curl drew a moan from the detective, a moan that John was quick to swallow.

It wasn't until John's mouth left Sherlock's and made its way to the detectives jawline that he remembered his original question.

"John."

The former doctor hummed against the skin that joined Sherlock's neck to his jaw.

"John why were you crying?"

The doctor dropped his head into Sherlock's shoulder with a sigh, his hands falling down to wrap lightly around the detective's middle.

"Because, well, because you were you, you know? You just- you were deducing things and rattling off information at a crime scene just like you always did. It was just, Christ I don't know, like a confirmation. The final nail in the proverbial coffin on the thought that this is a dream. You were standing there like you belonged, because you do. But, it was just a bit overwhelming you know? I finally have what I've wanted, I have no idea how to handle it."

Sherlock pulled his hands from the back of the doctor;s trousers and wrapped them tightly around his back, his palms lightly squeezing the warm flesh.

"I'm sorry you know. Truly sorry. It never occurred to me that this might be too much for you."

John chuckled into the detective's shoulder, before leaning up to kiss the underside of his chin.

"You are a brilliant moron. But you're my brilliant moron."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a mischievous smirk affixing itself to his features.

Before the former doctor could stop him, Sherlock grab John's ass, earning a decidedly high pitched squeak from the doctor.

He bent his head down, and practically growled in John's ear.

"Let me make it up to you then."

John took a deep breath, nodding before stepping back, away from the detective.

He ran a hand in an attempt to tame his hair, straightened his blazer and nodded.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's note: As if you hadn't already guessed from the blatant foreshadowing, this chapter is smut. That's right. You can all let go of your breath, the M rating is now relevant. Yes the cursing technically counts but honestly you would be disappointed if the only thing they did was curse. Anyway.**

The pair clambered into a cab, both of them practically resonating with tension.

John kept his eyes firmly trained out of the window in an attempt to keep himself under control.

Sherlock, on the other hand, kept stealing fervent glances at the doctor, his finger's twitching with the desire to touch.

"You know," Sherlock purred, the deep baritone sending shivers down the former doctor's spine. "It's been so very long since the last time you sunk yourself to the hilt into me."

The blatant dirty talk was not something that John remembered Sherlock being fond of.

Not that he was opposed to it.

Truly, the detective's voice was sinful of its own right.

John had managed to get hard listening to him drone on about bees.

But mix in the delicious content that he was spouting now?

"Sherlock I swear if you keep that up I'll be spent before we make it to the flat."

The detective smirked.

"Oh you are underestimating yourself my dear Watson."

He drew out each syllable, his smirk curling into a grin.

John writhed in his seat, refusing to look at the detective, his breathing growing ragged.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you John? What I've been fantasizing about doing for three years?"

John practically whispered, so far removed was he from his ability to speak.

Sherlock leaned over his lips a hairs breadth from the former doctor's ear.

"You are going to fuck me over and over until I scream."

The car jolted to a stop, with the cabby grunting "Baker Street" from the front.

John scrambled out of the car, tripping over his shoes in his scramble fr the door.

Sherlock's rumbling laugh followed him as the detective quickly paid for the ride and strode over to pick up his blogger.

"Eager, are we?"

The detective helped John back to his feet, grinning as the man groaned.

"This is your fault, you know. A perfectly acceptable suit, and you just couldn't let it stay unscathed. No!"

He fumbled for his key, scrambling into the front door.

"You have to go and wind me up so that I trip over my own two feet and tear the knees out of my suit."

Sherlock glanced down and noticed that, sure enough, the expensive fabric had sheered through, the former doctors knees were red and scraped.

"Then again you've already promised to make up for being a prick you can just add this to the list."

The detective grinned, and before his blogger could protest he scooped him up and carried him the rest of the way up the steps.

John let out an entirely undignified squeak before bursting into completely ridiculous laughter.

"Fucking hell Sherlock, you could have warned a bloke."

Sherlock simply deposited the former doctor onto his bed, the former doctor near giggling.

John opened his eyes to see that Sherlock was simply staring at him, his expression distant and glazed.

"Sherlock, mate, what's the matter? Are you alright?"

In an instant he switched into concerned doctor mode, jarring the detective from his ruminations.

"Hmm? Oh, yes its nothing."

John quirked an eyebrow, earning a reluctant sigh from the detective as he sat on the edge of the bed.

The former doctor glanced around, his lips pursed in confusion.

"Well, yes. I am here. So are you, I believe. At least I hope so. I mean you did make a _very _convincing case that I hadn't already gone round the bend,so there's that."

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes wandering as he searched for the words needed to convey his thoughts.

"I know you are here physically,of course. And I should hope mentally, but It's-"

He sighed, running his hand through the tangled mess of curls before turning,silver eyes scanning the doctor for an answer to an unspoken question.

"In every singe scenario that I could fathom this didn't happen. I allowed myself to dream of it, because it was a comfort. Though I distanced myself from hope. After all, as far as I was originally concerned you were engaged to be married."

John buried the rise of laughter from the simply thought of that and shifted on the bed to sit next to the detective, shoulder to shoulder.

"Then when I came back-"

"Less than three days ago."

"Stating the obvious. By the time I convinced you that you had not finally gone insane you were so- and then this morning it was like you weren't, then again It WAS your idea to do this whole competition. Though even then I-"

He glanced down,not daring to meet his bloggers eyes.

John nudged Sherlock lightly with his shoulder.

"You what?"

"I thought you were joking."

The former doctor paused, taking in that fact.

"So the thing in the alley, and the dirty talk in the cab-"

"Was completely sincere, but I still fully expect you to walk away at any moment."

"Expect?"

The detective looked up, eyes boring int John's.

"Yes. Do you not want to leave now? Now that you see just how broken I am?"

John snorted, shaking his head.

"You really are one of the most ignorant geniuses that I have ever met."

Sherlock recoiled, confused, before John was on him, Arms wrapping around his shoulders while maneuvered to sit on the man's lap.

He pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips before pressing in nipping and tugging at his bottom lip until Sherlock relented, moaning into the former doctor's mouth.

They continued this pattern, languid kissing followed by John's teasing and Sherlock's shuddering moans, until the detective began groping, his hands grabbing at his bloggers ass.

John chuckled, pressing forward into their kiss until Sherlock toppled backwards, John still straddling his hips as their torso's laid flat together.

The former doctor moved to trail kisses down Sherlock's jaw, his fingers managing to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, despite the lack of space between them.

Sherlock, for his part, had lost himself to the sensations of John.

Jon's lips trailing his skin.

John's fingers working at his belt buckle.

Johns knee rubbing against the bulge of his trousers.

All while he could barely manage to keep his hands down the back of his bloggers pants.

Well now.

That wouldn't do.

Sherlock fought himself for a coherent thought,finally managing to et himself under enough control to push John over and roll on top.

It was only then that he noticed the distinct inequality of their state of dress.

Or rather, undress.

Sherlock's shirt was completely unfastened, his trousers undone and his belt hanging form his hips, while John barely looked rumpled.

Sherlock shook his head, gripping the collar of Johns shirt and tugging ripping it open, the sound of the buttons hitting the floor, earning him a groan.

"Seriously, how many pounds of muscle did you gain?"

The detective shrugged, his fingers trailing over the far too pronounced ribs on his bloggers body.

"Not nearly as many as you have lost."

John blushed, turning his head away from the detective's far to inquisitive stare.

"It's not a bad thing John, I don't-size isn't the issue. I just-"

He leaned in on his elbows, his face hovering over the doctor's.

"I just want you to be around for how ever long that I can possibly have you."

John smirked straining forward to capture Sherlock's lips with his own.

Apologies accepted, then.

Sherlock let himself fall back into their kiss, their hips grinding against each other while John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair.

The detective thrust down, earning a gasp from his blogger.

"You really, ahh, you are wearing too fucking much."

Sherlock's smirk grew and he shrugged of his shirt, lifting his hips to peel the unnecessary garments from his legs.

John continued the pattered, shirking off his ruined shirt.

His fingers went to the tie around his neck, when Sherlock stopped him.

"No. That stays. The rest of it goes."

John complied lifting his hips for his detective to peel him out of his bottoms.

Now skin to skin, their movements grew more frantic.

Sherlock reached between them, gripping them both and stroking slowly, their moans in sync to his movements.

"You keep that up-"

John groaned as the detective twisted his wrist slightly.

"_Damnthosefingers._ I'll come like this."

Sherlock stopped, again leaning over John, his breath burning against his blogger's skin.

"No."

The doctor smirk once more before pointing to the nightstand.

Sherlock fumbled around, finally coming across the bottle of lube stashed within.

He nearly laughed at the label.

"Cherry flavoured? Sentimental are we?"

John shrugged, bracing himself in an attempt to sit up.

Sherlock simply pushed him back down,before seating himself higher on the bed, his legs spread wide.

The former doctor moved to help his detective, but was met with a hard stare.

"Move and I leave."

He was frozen, one arm propping him up while he laid on his side.

At least he was privy to a good view.

Sherlock pumped the clear liquid onto his fingers, the pungent sent of cherry invading the room.

He slowly rubbed his entrance, biting his lip while he pushed a finger in.

John moaned at the sight of Sherlock lowly but efficiently fingering himself, preparing himself.

He wanted to touch, to help, but was wary of Sherlock's threat.

A second finger, earning a genuine moan from the genius, and a responding jolt of arousal for the doctor.

With the third their eyes locked, Sherlock sitting up while John laid flat on his back, the instructions clear.

"Are you sure?"

The former doctor nodded, fumbling for a pillow to set behind his head.

Sherlock once again clambered onto John's lap, his eyes blown wide.

He quickly covered the blogger's dick with lube, before John steadied his detectives hips as he lowered himself, head thrown back in pleasure.

The sat there like that fora moment, Sherlock adjusting, his head thrown back and hands flat on John's chest, while his blogger stroked his thighs gently.

The detective moved, slowly raising up only to lower himself gently, repeatedly drawing strangled moans from his blogger.

His pace increased, the strain on his legs doing little to slow him.

Sherlock groped blindly for John's hand,interlacing their fingers as he drew himself nearly completely off, before slamming down, forcing both men to shout.

"I'm-"

John nodded, feeling the liquid heat coiling in his own abdomen.

He met Sherlock in a kiss, the change in angle pushing both men over the edge.

They were both frozen, each one silent as they rode out their orgasms, the tremors from which had them both clinging tight to one another for support.

They collapsed, Sherlock on top of John, the blogger still inside his detective.

Neither spoke, they simply laid there, shattered, blissful, and blank.


	18. Chapter 18

John must have fallen asleep, because he opened his eyes to a shadowy room and a fully dressed Sherlock, leaning casually against the wall.

Well.

As casually as a man could while starring down at his naked and thoroughly debauched blogger.

John smiled lazily, before grimacing at the cricket in his neck at the papery sensation of his tongue.

"Water's on the night stand."

He nodded, stretching his arms out before sitting up and ruffling his fingers through his hair.

He fumbled for the glass, taking a long sip before finally regarding his detective.

Sherlock had showered, his curls were still slightly damp in the dim light.

He'd changed into a purple shirt that was so incredibly tight that it looked about to burst.

John chuckled slightly, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Is that your old shirt?"

The detective nodded.

"I'm surprised that you can even get the damn thing buttoned. Did you have to use a coat hanger?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Are you complaining?"

The former doctor shook his head.

"Not at all."

The detective pushed himself from the wall.

"Clean up. We've got half an hour until we need to meet Mrs. Hudson."

The man nodded, standing and stretching, his hand rubbing the knot in his neck tiredly.

"I'll fix that after you get ready."

The former doctor went to nod, thought against it, and headed into the small bathroom.

He was quick in his getting ready, a short shower to remove the grime and a small touch of styling.

He laughed at the outfit that Sherlock had chosen for him, but put it on anyway.

As he stepped into the living room, dressed in his lumpy and extremely over sized oatmeal jumper, the detective burst into a grin.

"Oh god, that looks dreadful. Go change into something that's not-"

He looked away, laughter bubbling in his chest.

John strode back and forth, the too-long sleeves flapping pas this hands.

"You sure you don't want me wearing this then? It hides a lot."

The detective shook his head.

"You look like a child that's wearing his fathers clothing. Now hurry, I don't want to see Mrs. Hudson's face if we are late."

John rolled his eyes, quickly scavenging through his closet for his next-smallest suit.

Sherlock followed, helping his blogger button his shirt and fixing his tie.

"All set?"

The former doctor sighed., pointing to his feet and wiggling his toes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Plus you still haven't fixed my neck."

The detective slid behind the doctor, warm hands kneading the muscle.

Not a word was said save for the soft moans John made as his muscles relaxed, the knots melting away.

Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to will away the reaction his body was having to those sounds.

He stepped away, earning him a sigh from his doctor.

"Why'd you stop for?"

The detective spun around, already backing out of the door.

"We are going to be late if you don't hurry."

John snorted, following his detective into the living room, where his shoes were set out, waiting.

"What do you even care fr anyway? Not once have I ever seen you so damn determined to be punctual. I mean seriously."

Sherlock shrugged, though his features said it all.

Jaw hard, neck muscles twitching slightly.

Nervous.

Fingers fidgeting, eyes flitting back and forth.

Very nervous.

Almost-

"You're afraid to disappoint her, aren't you?"

The detective scoffed.

"What? No. Of course not. Why on earth would I care what she thinks? She's just my landlady."

John nodded, humming as he tugged on his shoes.

"Then why are you blushing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Shut up Watson."

The former doctor shrugged, pushing himself up from his chair before turning to double check his appearance in the mirror.

He caught sight of Sherlock, and nodded at him, earning another eye roll.

"Ready then?"

Another nod.

"Did she ever-"

"Yoo-hoo, boys!"

The sound of heels clicking on wood filled the room as she entered.

"God I'll never get used to saying that again."

She grinned, looking at both of their confused faces.

"Are you two dears ready?"

John frowned, his eyebrows knitting together.

"You said you would-"

"Call and tell you, I know I did, but I also know you lot."

She pointed at them, a smile breaking at the corner f her stern expression.

"I give you a time and a place and you don't show up at all. So I figured I'd take you my self."

Sherlock smirked at John, who had broken into a full fledged grin.

"Well then-"

John stuck out his arm invitingly.

"Shall we?"

She giggled, elbowing him lightly in the ribs before linking arms with him.

Sherlock latched the door and followed the pair down the steps, a warm smile splitting his features.


	19. Chapter 19

The small talk in the taxi had left all three of them relaxed and in a surprisingly pleasant mood.

They pulled up in front of a tan stone and brick building near Westminster Abbey.

"Here we are boys, Quirinale."

Neither man recognized the name, but as the stepped down into the restaurant, the were both pleasantly surprised by the posh and light interior.

The room was filled with hushed conversations and soft music, giving it a warm and airy atmosphere.

A small woman dressed in black stepped forward.

"Reservation?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Watson-Holmes please. My boys are treating me to dinner."

John fought not to gape, while Sherlock simply shifted uncomfortably, stunned by the unusual introduction.

The hostess eyed both men with a slightly surprised expression herself, though it was quickly buried under a mask of professionalism.

"Right this way."

They were seated in the corner, the table illuminated by a candle in the center and the soft streetlight filtering through the frosted glass windows.

"Would you like a wine to start with-"

The landlady shook her head.

"water will be fine for now miss."

The woman left, and it was John to make the first comment.

"Where on earth did you find this place?"

She smiled, flattening and folding her napkin over her lap.

"You aren't the only one with interesting associates Sherlock."

John glanced at Sherlock, who was desperately fighting to maintain a stoic expression.

Instead of continuing on the subject of just how many associates Mrs. Hudson had, the detective spoke on another topic.

"Watson-Holmes. Mrs. Hudson really. I thought you were more subtle than that."

The woman smiled, accepting her water and the bread sticks that the waitress brought out.

"Subtle has a time and place. It's merely a suggestion."

She smirked, opening up the menu before her.

"Holmes-Watson works too I suppose."

John chuckled, which had the woman looking up at him warmly, her eyes alight.

"Why John dear I think that that's the first time that I've heard an honest laugh out of you in months."

the former doctor's smile soften, and Sherlock couldn't help the tightening in his chest as the guilt welled up inside him.

He blinked in surprise wen John's hand found his under the table.

"I'm a lot better. Not perfect, that takes more time than I've had so far, but I'm better."

Sherlock squeezed his hand, and the landlady looked between the both of them warmly.

"Have you two gotten your orders or do you want me to grab something for all of us?"

The detective looked at his blogger, who shrugged.

"You can just order for us."

The waitress seemed to hear this.

"We three would like to start with the Orecchiette con salsiccia, cime di rapa e pecorino."

The woman nodded, collecting their menus and stepping away.

"Is sausage really the best thing for you Mrs. Hudson?"

She sighed, shaking her head at the detective.

"I've survived your fall and resurrection-which you've yet to explain to me- I don't think the extra cholesterol is going to be the death of me."

John smiled,grabbing for a bread stick at the center of the table.

"You know-"

The former doctor shewed, swallowing his mouthful.

"She could have ordered that one below it. That one had octopus."

Sherlock screwed up his noes, earning a laugh from the the two.

There were a few moment of amicable silence, before Sherlock sighed, squeezing John's hand slightly.

"Mrs. Hudson, you said that you had some question's on how I-this, all happened?"

The woman nodded, straightening her back in the chair.

"I just wanna know how? How did you pull of faking your death?"

The detective smirked, this plot no small source of pride for him.

"Well the majority of it is complicated and involves a high level of-oof."

John elbowed him harshly in the ribs.

"Layman's terms."

Sherlock huffed, put out.

"Fine. Basically? Homeless network. I had the m in place just in case I couldn't talk Moriarty around."

John held his breath, praying that there would be more information, though none seemed forthcoming.

"But the pulse! John said he checked your pulse."

"Rubber ball under the arm. Cut blood flow to my wrist enough to stop the feel of a pulse there. My assistants pulled you away, John, before You could check my carotid artery."

The wheels clicked in the former doctor's skull as the piece fell into place.

"So all of those nurses and staff-"

"Mostly homeless network, some were real, but put there under Molly's supervision."

Mrs. Hudson gasped slightly.

"Miss Hooper was in on this?"

Sherlock nodded, glancing over his shoulder nervously.

"Yes. she help me organize everything. And before you ask Lestrade did not know until he showed up at my brother's mansion and found me sprawled over the sofa."

John smiled at the thought of what a shock that must have been for the Detective Inspector.

"Is that it then? A ball, some assistance and your dead?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"A laundry truck softened my fall a bit, though that managed to smash my collarbone sprain a few muscles and scraped the hell out of my chest."

John shook his head.

"No I saw you fall, Sherlock, I watched you hit the ground."

His voice was a touch louder in pitch, as a few people turned to look at them questioningly.

The detective sighed.

"You only think you did. Remember when you were hit by that bike?"

A nod.

"Well that was enough time for me to reach the ground. Your brain filled in the images of my actual impact from the information between my descent and my 'body'."

His blogger sat still for a moment, his mouth hanging open slightly as he processed this.

The image that he replayed in his mind over and over again.

The thud he heard.

The way Sherlock's limbs had jumped.

That had been a sick fabrication of his own mind?

No wonder he was so haunted by the dreams.

They'd originated from his imagination in the first place.

" I-I gotta- ex-excuse me."

He clambered from his chair, wrenching his hand away from Sherlock before stumbling to the restroom, the edges of his vision blurring.

Sherlock moved to go after him, but Mrs. Hudson held his hand.

"Give him a second dear. Nothing you can say will help right now."

Sherlock remained seated, his eyes watching the restroom doors while he waited.


	20. Chapter 20

John bent over the sink, splashing water into his face while he took deep breaths, trying desperately to calm his nerves.

"Come on Watson get a hold of yourself."

He glanced up seeing Sherlock slamming into the ground again and again with the thud of every heartbeat.

"Dammit man get a hold of yourself."

Eyes squeezing shut, fingers tightly gripping the edges of the porcelain sink as a wave of nausea hit him. Quickly, he staggered to one of the stalls in the back of the restroom, collapsing to his knees just in time to see the meager contents of his stomach resurface.

A tear fell onto his cheek at the shame that well inside of him.

"Fuck. Fuck. I fucked up." He wrapped his arms around his knees in an attempt to hold back another wave of nausea that he knew would simply be dry heaves.

"You said you wouldn't let this happen again. You can't do this to yourself Watson. He's back now...Fuck it."

His fingers shook as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, the tears flowing in earnest as it clattered onto the tiled floors.

"Oh for fucks sake."

He scooped it up and breathlessly punched in Lestrade's number. His heart pounding as it rang.

Once.

Twice.

"Hello? John? Are you there?"

The former doctor clamped a hand over his mouth to contain a sob.

"Yea, yea."

John could hear muffled cursing as the DI shewed someone out of his office.

"What is it John. What triggered this one."

He took a shaky breath, big gulps of air coming in between broken sobs as he tried to push the words out his chest constricting once again.

"Sher- The. His body. He- Fall."

A fresh wave of dry heaves followed suit as more shame washed over him.

_I'm A grown man dammit! _

"Hey, Hey. John, mate. It's alright. It's going to be alright. Where are you? Where is Sherlock."

John rubbed his eyes uselessly with his sleeve.

"Restaurant. Dinner." another gulp of air. "Just talk."

He could here the Detective Inspector walk back and settle into his chair, the sound of metal and plastic squeaking somehow calming.

"Look mate, he's back. He's alive. That image that you keep seeing? It's not real, alright?"

John let out a deep breath, rubbing at his eyes with his palm.

"He said that I never saw the the-the impact. That my fucking mind made that portion up."

The former doctor could hear Lestrade's elbow contact his desk and the long winded sigh that followed.

"He's right John. Form what I know of the story you wouldn't have seen the actual impact."

John nodded, his heartbeat quickening once more. "Great so it's just my fucked up mind that's been haunting me all this time."

"John, it's not your fault. Just, talked to Sherlock, alright? Can you get up."

The former doctor tried to push himself up, but he was shaking too badly.

"N-No." He smacked his hand against the stall door.

Hard.

"Ow fuck."

He tossed his phone down only to here the slide suddenly come to a stop.

A pale hand appeared next to a polished shoe to pick the phone up.

"John?"

The doctor, cradled his hand in his lap and sucked in his bottom lip, trying desperately to regain his composure

_Sherlock can not see me like this._

"I'm f-fine. Sherlock. Just a moment."

_Damn that stutter. _

"Do I really need to go through all of the ways that you are not fine, or can we simply settle on the fact that you're clearly suffering from an anxiety attack or flashback brought on by my thoughtless word choice."

John barked a laugh, one completely devoid of humor.

"The Great Sherlock Holmes thoughtless? Never."

Sherlock stepped closer and leaned against the stall door.

"May I come in?"

John shifted, reaching up and flushing the toilet.

"Yea." He flicked the latch on the door and Sherlock stepped into the doorway, his countenance instantly falling from suave detective to a mask of pain and guilt.

"John-"

"I don't want your pity."

He took another deep breath, calming his pulse slowly.

"I just, I need."

"What? Do you need something to drink, medications?"

One more breath.

To breath, see?"

His smile was as shaky as his body. He was still trembling uncontrollably in his position on the floor.

"You idiot."

Sherlock crouched on the floor, his eyes scanning his blogger while his hands braced against the man's shoulders.

Steady.

Warm.

"Is it alright if I help you up?"

_Sherlock? _

_Asking for permission?_

_I must look worse than I thought._

"Please."

His voice was meant to sound strong and humorous, but it came out broken, and tired.

Sherlock hooked his arms under John's and hauled him to his feet. The former doctor leaning heavily against the detective.

"What do you need, John."

He took another deep breath. "I-I need to, to take a walk. Get some air."

He pointed to the sink. "Though rinsing my mouth out right now wouldn't be too bad an idea.

Sherlock nodded, helping him to the sink and held his shoulders while he swished hand fulls of water, turning the tap back and glancing at himself in the mirror.

He looked retched. His skin was pale and clammy, his eyes were rimmed with red, his shirt was rumples and the sleeves of it were stained with spit and tears.

He wanted to crawl back and hide in the stall again.

"I never knew you as a man that worried about his appearance."

The former doctor rolled his eyes pulling away slightly and rubbed his hands together.

"I'm not."

_But I do usually make a point not to go into public looking like I've just awoken from a massive binge on the floor of my best mate's bathroom._

Sherlock helped him out of the bathroom and nodded to across the room, who waved back.

"Christ. Mrs. Hudson. Shit I've ruined her dinner."

The detective guided his blogger up the steps and out of the door.

"Nonsense. She understands. Honestly it lasted longer than I was expecting it too."

John glanced up, confused. "Why's that?"

The detective pretended to scan the street in an effort to ignore the doctor's gaze.

"Anxiety attacks are common in peoples suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. As are flashbacks. They are often brought on by a trigger, and i suspected that the mentioning of my fall would be one."

He paused, placing his hands in his pocket.

"I just never expected for it to be that big of one. And Mrs. Hudson pointed out that I may have been a bit harsh."

John nodded.

"I would expect nothing less from you."

They rounded the corner, John calming slightly while Sherlock tried to skirt around the obvious topic of conversation.

He failed miserably.

"Do you get these frequently?"

The former doctor hummed.

"Not really anymore. Right after your funeral I would get them once, maybe twice a day. Mrs. Hudson tried to help but she really couldn't do much more than drown me in Tea and unwanted hugging, bless her."

He rubbed at his wrist slightly, a mannerism that Sherlock found curious.

"Lestrade was the one who helped me most of the time. Guess that he had experience with it or something."

Sherlock's fingers twitched a s small twitch of jealousy burned him.

"I saw that he was the one on your phone. You called him when you couldn't talk yourself down."

His blogger nodded.

"I haven't had one in nearly a year though."

The detective felt the guilt twisting once more in his stomach, and apparently it showed.

"It isn't your fault mate."

John smirked.

"Well, it is. But you shouldn't feel bad. You did what you had to do."

He bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's arm.

"I'll get over it."

As they walked, Sherlock surreptitiously let his hand drift to intertwine with his bloggers.

John said nothing of the gesture, but took the hint.

They would be alright.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock and John walked in silence for what felt like hours, simply holding hands and relishing in the confirmation of the other's presence. As darkness fell they hailed a cab, heading to Baker Street without a single word spoken between them. It wasn't until they reached the door that Sherlock broke the silence.

"You know, we could just head over to Angelo's and grab a bite, just the two of us." John glanced up, mildly startled by the statement.

"Hmm? No, no. Mrs. Hudson went to all that trouble taking us to that restaurant." He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door, pushing it open slowly. "The least we can do is wait for her to get back and eat the leftovers with her."

"How very kind of you to think of that John." Both men's head whipped forward to see Mrs hudson standing in her doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. "The table's set if you two would kindly wash up, I'll get the food warmed up for you."

Both men nodded, following their landlady into her flat. They both turned halfway down the hall, each attempting to squeeze into the cramped bathroom. "Budge over Sherlock, the sink's big enough for two of us."

Sherlock snorted derisively, shuffling over, his legs bumping against the toilet while John bent awkwardly over the counter to reach the sink. The detective rolled his eyes, glance up and glaring at his blogger. "This would be infinitely more efficient if we took turns."

John nodded, but bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's despite himself. "I don't see you attempting to leave."

The detective rinsed the soap from his hands and shook them, sending droplets of water at his blogger. Before John could reprimand him,the detective moved passed him and out into the hall. John continues to scrub his hands, meticulous as the doctor he once was. When that was finished he rinsed out his mouth one more time and made his way slowly to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

There he was met with the sight of Sherlock Holmes puttering around int he kitchen, removing food from takeout boxes an plating everything carefully. Mrs. Hudson was sitting at the table, her lips pursed as she poked at the buttons on her cellphone.

John coughed softly, drawing Mrs. Hudson to look up at him. "I do hope that you're feeling better dear." He nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Yes. I'm sorry for ruining-"

She shushed him. "You did ruin anything Mr. Watson. You just caused a change n venue, is all."

Sherlock set the plates down on the table. "Besides. I think that this is a bit better, don't you?"

The former doctor nodded ,pulling out the chair and seating himself. "Honestly, the only thing that I could be upset with you about is the giant leap in phone calls that I've gotten today. Twenty seven calls. And fourteen of them left voicemails!"

John frowned, poking at his food with his fork. "Why on earth did that happen?"

Sherlock settled into his chair. "John, it's clearly because of our impromptu walk through a rather commonly traveled part of London this afternoon. If my estimates are correct we will be the top story of tomorrow's news."

The former doctor paled, his mind replaying the open stares and surprised expressions that they had received. "I didn't think that it would be that sensational ."

The detective rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his food. "I came back from the dead. That in and of it's self is pretty sensational. Couple that with the fact that we were very publicly displaying affection and-"

"You've got news." Sherlock nodded,andJohn shook his head,sighing asheglared downat hisplate. "How long before it dies down, do you think? A week? A month?"

The detective shrugged. "I can't really say. Does it matter?"

Mrs Hudson nodded. "I'm concerned about how this will affect future casework for you dear." Both men looked at their landlady, confused. "Well, New Scotland Yard used to have a policy about relationships amongst it's employees. I don't know if they still do, or if it extends to - oh what did you call yourself?"

"Consulting -"

"That's right, consulting detectives, but they may not like it."

The detective shrugged. "They'll allow it. They need me. Besides, nothing's been said of Donovan and Anderson."

John paused, his fork hovering between his plate and his mouth. "Donovan was transferred."

The detective seemed slightly crestfallen. "That's a shame. I was so looking forward to seeing the look of utter disdain and horror on her face when I returned to work."

Bothe Mrs. Hudson and John rolled their eyes, each one fighting the urge to laugh at the sincerity in the detective's voice. They went about eating their meal, Sherlock casting surreptitious glances at John, who caught him and winked nearly every time. The meal carried on like this until each plate was cleared, at which point Mrs. Hudson stood. "Well boys it was absolutely lovely having this meal with you."

Sherlock slid his chair back and smiled, leaning down to hug the woman, a low whisper escaping from his lips. "It's good to be home." She patted his cheek and turned to John, how -himself- had just stood. "Get some proper rest dear." She stepped back and crossed her arms. "That goes for both of you. I don't want any shenanigans until you two are both in working order. Is that clear?"

John stood at attention, a grin spread wide across his face. "Yes ma'am."

She chuckled and sacked his arm lightly. "Get out."

Both men grinned, Sherlock marching dramatically from the room with John at his heels. They reached the door and heard a quiet "Goodnight boys." echoing behind them.

John turned and bellowed, "Good night Mrs. Hudson!" before shutting the door.


	22. Chapter 22

The pair ascended the steps slowly, both of them warm with wine and the feeling of contentment that had settled over them. As they made their way into their flat, Sherlock gently wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. "Are you feeling better now?"

The former doctor sighed, letting his detective lead him time the couch. "You know, despite everything, today's actually been a good day. I feel good." He smiled softly, setting onto the couch next to his detective, leaning further reading into Sherlock's grasp. "That's not something that I've felt in quite a while."

John felt Sherlock tense beside him and turned. He watched the muscles tightening in Sherlock's jaw, the way that the corners of his lips curled slightly, the creases forming- unbidden- at the corners of his eyes.

He reached out tentatively and ran his fingers lightly over the shadow of stubble on Sherlock's jaw, letting them linger there to feel the gentle tugging of muscles under skin and the thumping of his pulse.

Sherlock, for his part, tried resolutely to ignore the warmth spreading across his chest and up the back of his neck. He looked away as John's hand brushed against his skin.

John gripped Sherlock's chin lightly, turning him to meet his gaze.

The detective reluctantly locked eyes with his blogger, and saw light and no small amount of warmth filling his blogger's eyes. "What?"

He swallowed, completely surprised about how utterly his voice betrayed his arousal, despite the sheer intimacy of the moment. He damned himself for ruining the obviously tender moment.

The former doctor simply laughed. "You know, It always amazes me that you voice can get that low. I mean really, like it wasn't ridiculous beforehand."

The lightheartedness of the comment ran contrary with Sherlock's logic, resulting in a complete breakdown of his verbal capacities. He simply sat there, squinting at John in confusion.

"What I was going to say is that, I'm glad your back." He held up a hand, shifting to where he could better face the detective on the couch. "I know I've said that before, but I just wanted to emphasize that I'm really really fucking glad that you're back."

Sherlock his hand wander to capture the one resting on his bloggers lap. He paused then, biting his lip in a clearly nervous matter that was so uncharacteristic that it set John on edge.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

Sherlock stood up, abruptly letting go of John and running his fingers through his hair as he paced.

" I am- I know that we've, err- well." He gestured wildly, a blush become apparent on the back of his neck. He stopped in front of John. "Celebrated my return, so to speak. But-" He resumed pacing, as John tried to piece together exactly what was going through his detective's mind.

_Celebrated? What on earth could he mean? He can't actually be hungry already. And he wouldn't be embarrassed about- would he?_

"Sherlock, are you actually having trouble asking me for sex?"

The detective stopped forgetting, his face nearly red. "I-"

John stood, an awed grin crossing his features. "you aren't aren't you? Sultry Sherlock Holmes, who seduced me not even 8 hours ago is having trouble asking me for sex."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms defiantly, despite the fact that he couldn't meet his blogger's eyes."We've had intercourse 3 times John, I doubt that I would be embarrassed by-"

"But you are!" His grin widened and he stepped forward, crowding into Sherlock's personal space just like his detective was so fond of doing. "You're blushing for christ's sake!" He paused, his features suddenly dropping as he stepped back, fear flashing over his features. "Why?"

Sherlock frowned, his eyes scanning as he assessed his situation and calculated the appropriate course of action.

The answer was a simple one of course.

Honesty.

_Damn._

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair once more but managed to meet his blogger's eye. "This entire evening-since leaving the restaurant- has been a very relaxing and casual affair." He sighed,his fingers drumming against his arms. "It felt intimate. Somehow more than usual."

John's brow furrowed slightly. "So why does that-"

"I didn't what to ruin it." The detective blurted, before sighing heavily. "I didn't think that you your posture and attitude and in the light of recent events it- I mean, it just didn't feel like you were-"

John 's eyes widened in comprehension at the point being conveyed by his detective's stream of babble. "In the mood?"

Sherlock nodded. "Every previous sexual encounter that we have had has been far more-" He closed his eyes and gestured wildly. "Volatile. Animalistic. Heated." He shook his head, once again flopping onto the couch with his head buried in his hands. "I am sorry John. I had no intentions of ruining your night."

The former doctor's eyes widened once more, and he stepped forward. "Sherlock." He stepped up to the detective placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Is that what you thought? That you'd ruin the night?." He chuckled. "You are an absolute idiot."

The detective's head snapped up, his eyes sharp as he tried to process John's words.

"I was actually hoping that we would sleep together, though I wasn't going to be so blunt about it." He sighed, sitting down next to Sherlock once more. "I can't believe that i have to explain this, but sex doesn't have to be fast and rough, with filthy pillow talk and heavy groping. It can be slow, lingering."

_Filled with love._

the former doctor could see that his detective was having trouble computing that modicrum of information. He saw the way that he was biting at the corner of his lip and worrying his hands on his thighs.

_Well then. Maybe actions will speak louder than words. _

John took Sherlock's hand and pulled him up off the couch, guiding him slowly to the bedroom.

"Sit on the bed Sherlock." The detective did as he was instructed and watched as his blogger carefully removed each item of clothing, placing each item into the hamper before turning to face him.

Sherlock drank in the sight of John laid bare before him. It's something that he had seen earlier, but then his vision had been clouded with lust and desire.

Now he categorized each and every inch of skin for it's surface. The scars -old and new- that littered his torso, the burns on his knees from his fall earlier in the day, the way that he looked so emaciated even with a full days worth of food in his system.

John allowed the scrutiny to continue until he noticed that his detective's gaze had fallen back to the slightly faded scar on his shoulder. A familiar mark.

He stepped forward and Sherlock stood, running his finger gently over the old scar. Instead of flinching away from the touch John allowed it, countering only with moving to unbutton the detective's shirt.

When Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, John stopped him with a slight shake of his head. He simply peeled Sherlock out of his shirt and continued to do the same with his detective's trousers and pants.

Now the detective was completely out of his comfort zone. He was simply standing there, naked, with an unmistakable blush burning across his chest and neck. "John I-"

John simply smiled and stepped forward wrapping his arms lightly around the detective and kissing his collar bone. "Relax. Just relax. We're taking this slow, alright?"

Sherlock sighed once more, his entire body tensing despite his blogger's orders.

The former doctor smiled into the detective's skin. "Git."

The single word tugged a smirk from the detective, who flopped onto the bed ,pulling John down with him. John laughed as his legs went sprawling over the edge of the bed, splaying him awkwardly on top of Sherlock.

Their laughter shook the bed and they gripped each other simply to keep from falling.

John planted a gentle kiss once more to Sherlock's collarbone, before trailing those kisses down, moving of of the bed and in between his detective's legs. The former doctor watched the way Sherlock's blush deepened as he sat up, realizing the exact situation he was in.

"John you don't have to-" The blogger simply rolled his eyes and ran his hands down the back of Sherlock's legs, silencing him. He continued the motion, rubbing and massaging the his calves while planting soft kisses along the insides of the detective's thighs.

Sherlock tried to stifle the moans that were threatening to escape his mouth as each warm kiss burned his skin. Everything was moving so painfully slow, the agony of anticipation.

John stifled a giggle at the way Sherlock was acting, his entire body tense and shaking, his fist shoved firmly in his mouth, his skin smattered with patches of pink. He pulled Sherlock's leg up and kissed behind his knee, earning a small shiver from his detective. He then placed that leg over his shoulder and repeated the process with the other one before sliding his hands up and gripping Sherlock's hips,rubbing small circles with his thumbs.

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, only to stiffen and grip the sheets the moment that John's lips brushed against his cock. The blogger smiled and nuzzled him, the scruff of his cheek making the genius bite his lip and scrunch his nose at the sensation. The blogger continues, teasing and touching, expecting Sherlock to writhe an moan. Instead, he was met with a sigh, and the detectives softening.

" John this isn't really-" John pulled back, consern knitting his brows.

"What?"

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, sliding up on his elbows to look down at his blogger. "John, I appreciate the effort, but frankly, I'm getting bored."

The blogger sat there for a moment, his eyes squinted as he reviewed the words again in his mind. He looked up, his mouth agape.

"Bored?"

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and then absentmindedly began to stroke himself. "Are you honestly surprised?"

The former doctor sighed chuckling slightly before shaking his head.

"Not in the least you sodding git. There goes my fucking plans."

Sherlock offered a weak smile. "Literally or figuratively?"

John groaned and picked himself up off of the floor, plopping down next to Sherlock and shoving him playfully away. "Both, actually."

The detective's small smile grew into a full blown grin as he swiftly moved to straddle his bloggers waist legs and arms wrapping around him. John jumped at the sudden movement his eyes fluttering closed at the warmth that radiated over his skin. He swallowed thickly, his voice rough. "Not bored now?"

Sherlock shook his head and his head descended, mouth bowing to latch once more to his blogger's scarred shoulder while his hips rolled against John's cock. The former doctor moaned loudly, his head falling forward to rest against the curve of his detective's neck.

They continued like this, Sherlock rutting against his blogger, John trying desperately to return the sensations that he was feeling and failing miserably.

The detective slid back and pulled his head up, tangling his fingers in John's hair and latching their lips together while taking both of thier cock's in his hand.

John moaned and bucked his hips into Sherlock's hand, clutching at his detective's arms back, trying to pull him as close as possible as he climaxed.

Sherlock smiled into their kiss as one of John's hands shakily joined his, slowly drawing out his own climax. They slumped together, the detective still wrapped around his blogger their, hands roaming and touching.

It was John who pulled them to the side and pulled back the duvet, wrestling both of them into a semi comfortable position. He ended up with Sherlock's arms around his neck and one of his legs curled around his hip, while he himself laid flat, one arm pinned beneath his detective and the other curled on top of his chest.

There were fleeting thoughts of trying to remove himself and clean them up, grab a clean blanket, turn off the lights. All of these passed as Sherlock nudged himself closer to the former doctor, his breath ghosting over the rapidly chilling skin of John's shoulder.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: Alright Folks. This is it. This is it. I am done. DONE you hear me? No more that's it. I'm through. ... Well... Okay, so you get an epilogue... and then 2pi, for my Mystrade Folks... Ok. OKAY! You win. Quit with the puppy dog eyes, stop with the crocodile tears. You get a . another sequel. Sorry. It ain't over folks, but this time? ...Well...it'll be explained shortly. **

**SHSHSHSHSHSH**

John woke up slowly, a soft buzzing drawing him to consciousness. He groaned, rolling over and fumbling for his phone which had fallen to the floor. He gripped it and and braced one hand against the floor as he squinted at the screen.

_**Three Missed Calls: Unknown Number**_

He groaned as the phone began ringing once more. He fumbled with the touchscreen until he had managed to successfully answer the call.

His first word came out more as a jumbled grunt than anything resembling words. His second attempt was still rough, but understandable.

"Hullo?"

"Mr. Watshon? Mr. Watshon are you there?"

John squinted and glanced around, trying to place the voice across the line. His eyes widened in realization.

"What is it? What's wrong."

The sound of sniffling crossed the line. "Mishesh Arron kicked me out."

The former doctor ruffled his hair and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, glancing back at Sherlock, who was still sound asleep, curled in the blankets.

"Do Ya need me to come getcha again?"

There was a shuffling sound. "Nah, I know how to you. I've been there enough."

John chuckled and glanced at the clock.

"It's nearly four AM, what did you do to get kicked out this early."

Sherlock groaned in beside him, sitting up and squinting at him "Who's on the line?"

John simply held up a finger, asking the detective to wait.

"Shot the sculpture in my room with a potato gun and broke it. Mishesh Arron washn't happy." John stood and moved to the bathroom, quietly sleaning himself up in the mirror, while Sherlock sat on the bed, disoriented and confused. The former doctor squinted into the mirror.

"Why are you lisping?"

A disconcerting pause. "Her hushband was upset too."

John felt his face flush red with anger and slammed his hand down on the counter hard, rattling the bottles there.

SHerlock stood and leaned inside the doorway, his brow furrowed in concern at the sudden rage that had consumed his blogger's features. "John."

"What are your injuries."

There was another sniffle across the line. _Broken nose then._

"Enough to warrant my coming to you shir. Look, I'm a few blocksh away. You can deal with it."

John sighed and nodded. "Key's where it has always been."

The call ended and John turned, only to be faced with a bewildered and frankly heartbroken looking Sherlock Holmes.

The former doctor stepped forward and placed a hand on his detective's arm. "Sherlock? What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head and sucked in his bottom lip in an attempt to keep his composure. "Who was it?"

John squinted, lost himself. "What?"

Sherlock's voice cracked as he spoke . "Who was it on the line?"

The former doctor sighed and stepped around the detective, keeping eye contact.

"Hamish."


End file.
